


Undone

by Darling_Jack



Series: Facing West [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Outing, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Pining, Poor Arthur :(, Post-BATPM, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Tags May Change, kind of a slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 88,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: Still recovering from his brief stay with the O’Driscoll’s, Arthur, frustrated by his slow improvement, decides to make things worse. Dutch helps.TW: ableist language, mentions of child abuse, mentions of suicidal thoughts, mentions of self harm, mentions of eating disorders.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Hamish Sinclair, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Series: Facing West [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980926
Comments: 955
Kudos: 425





	1. Chapter I: Clemens Point

His fucking arm doesn’t work.

The bruises had faded into an ugly dappled chartreuse, and the places where shackles had rubbed his skin off had since scabbed over and healed into ugly, thick scars, and he still felt exhausted deep to the core of his bones, and he still couldn’t sleep or think without finding himself back in that cellar, strung up like a slaughtered hog, Colm O’Driscoll’s face staring back at him with that awful, crooked grin, but he could ignore all of that and live with the poorly healed fractures and deal with the constant fevered ache in his muscles except his _fucking arm doesn’t work._

Hosea had the girls make him a sling from some spare canvas, something to keep his injured shoulder still and his useless fucking arm close to his body. He told Arthur to wear it all the time, except when bathing, and even then don’t move the arm. Not that he could if he wanted to. He could hardly feel it, save for the throbbing pain that beat in time with his heart and the occasional, rather unpleasant, lightning strikes of absolute icy-hot agony that left his vision white and squeezed the air out of him. Beyond that, the arm was heavy. Useless.

 _Time_ , Hosea had promised when Arthur, voice laced with panic, explained that he couldn’t move his fucking arm and he couldn’t really feel his fingers either, _wounds like this take time to heal._

‘Wounds like this’, referring to the unchanging crater where his shoulder used to be. It was a fragile situation to say the least; if he so much as twisted the wrong way, it was prone to splitting open, bleeding fast and heavy through delicate, damaged tissue. Arthur was still battling the sepsis, burning low with fever that spiked seemingly at random, leaving him a mumbling, sweaty mess, trapped in his cot at the mercy of whatever nightmarish specters his mind might conjure. Despite the fact that it had now been a month since his capture and subsequent return, the flesh was still raw and swollen, red and tender, yielding and fucking irritating at best. The burns of his impromptu cauterization had turned thick and pink, more scar than skin, but for the most part, ‘wounds like this’ were painfully slow to heal and horribly ugly.  
According to Hosea. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to look at it, save for hasty bandage changes and bindings when, inevitably, the wound broke open and started bleeding once again. He barely noticed when it did these days; often, it was one of the ladies, quietly sitting him down to re-wrap his gauze or Hosea angrily demanding he take a break and stop using his goddamn arm.

  
The goddamned arm he couldn’t move.

By now, the novelty of his injury had worn off. People stopped visiting, stopped sitting with him, well before he was able to get out of bed. After all, there was a camp to run, and folks had things that needed attending to. Arthur didn’t mind much; when Hosea didn’t sit by and keep him company, though he could tell the old man was getting tired of it as well, he had books to read, animals to sketch, and memories to painfully relive like a waking nightmare. Often, the latter two went hand in hand. His journal had been ruined by the O’Driscolls— not that it had been in great shape before— who had thrown his satchel around with reckless abandon, soaking the pages with the liquor and herbal tonics Arthur kept stocked. By the time Arthur was well enough to check, the entire thing had swollen and warped, some pages stuck together, congealed with the ointment he kept on hand for any scrapes his horse might sustain and the pomade that had cracked open. He had yet to buy a new one, yet to replace anything that had been irreparably damaged, and instead was stuck sketching on old newspapers like he was a child.

Arthur was unbelievably thrilled when Hosea finally allowed him to leave his tent, his emergence an act of sheer willpower and spite; a curse against the cot he’d been trapped in, at that point, for weeks, with little respite. His legs were shaky, and he grew exhausted all too quickly, but he did manage to bathe himself and trim the God-awful beard he’d grown, before returning to his tent. He’d grown stronger since— not strong, but stronger— as his injuries healed and he slowly forced himself back into usefulness. Those who noticed his recovery offered shy smiles or pats on the back. Some still treated him as though he were made of glass; others as if nothing had ever happened.

But Dutch? Arthur hadn’t seen him since his return— at least, he’s pretty sure he’d seen Dutch on the night he dragged his dying corpse back to camp to warn his family of the imminent danger. He couldn’t really remember much of that night, or most of the nights after that for about two weeks. What he does know is that in the past month he’s seen only the scantest glimpses of his mentor. Despite the fact that Dutch’s tent stood right next to Arthur’s, mere feet away, Dutch never once showed his face, never popped in to check on him, never offered a tall tale or an inspirational speech about loyalty or faith or some other shit.

Hosea assured him (he’d been doing that a lot lately) that Dutch was simply squeamish and couldn’t bear to see his son in such a state. But here he was, more or less recovered, and still the man avoided him like he were a sick plague rat.

He hadn’t _seen_ Dutch, but he could hear him. Throughout his recovery, that was a constant. He could hear him delivering speeches, a little rougher and quieter than usual, and listen to him angrily storm about the camp like the scantest edge of a hurricane; an omen of something worse lying in wait.

And now? The speeches were gone, replaced with complaints. Dutch snapped orders, assigning jobs two or three at a time, grumbling about damn near everything. How there wasn’t enough food, not enough men, not enough work, not enough money. How he wasn’t sure how they’d make it out of this without everyone pulling their weight. How he just needed everyone to have faith in him when clearly he had no faith in them.

Arthur couldn’t help but feel guilty.

  
Logically, he knew he shouldn’t. He was injured— damn near dead— and still in only the earliest stages of recovery; he couldn’t be expected to bounce back after a night of sleep and return to his work the next day. But damn it, as he listened to Pearson mumble about an empty stew, or Grimshaw loudly exclaim that the camp was falling apart and everyone needed to work harder, Arthur couldn’t help but feel responsible for everyone’s suffering. Every drunken complaint from Karen, barked from not more than two feet away from his tent, about how much of his work she had to do, every groan from Sean about how he wishes he could lay up in bed for a month, every time Charles had to leave camp before sunrise and return long after dark just to provide enough to keep the camp afloat, the weight in Arthur’s stomach grew. Even Hosea had started picking up the slack, often leaving for a day or two at a time, leaving Arthur to stew in his thoughts.

Some folks, in a deliberate attempt to needle him or perhaps their own type of desperation, were kind enough to bring their complaints to his face.

_“Ain’t you been in bed long enough?”_  
_“You’re just as worthless as Uncle now.”_  
_“If you ain’t even got the decency to earn your keep, the least you could do is die.”_

He couldn’t remember who had said what— what had been a joke, what had been cruelty, and what had been his own fevered thoughts— but each and every word was lodged into his skin like birdshot.

Worse still was the pity. How he loathed the pity, the way the girls would gawk at him with this look in their eyes as though he were a baby bird pushed from the nest, to how he’d be helped back to bed when they deemed he’d had enough of acting like a regular human being.

So whether his fucking arm worked or not, Arthur had to. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his bones, he pushed himself to his feet. Maybe he couldn’t hunt yet, but at the very least he could handle chores around camp. He had to.

Hosea wasn’t there to tell him to ‘ _take it easy_ ’, or to shout at him to go lie down, so he didn’t. Arthur went and took on the easiest task he could think of: gathering water. Dip a bucket in a lake. Easy. 

Progress was slow with only one bucket, and it pulled at the muscles in his back, but damn it, he filled the washing bins, managing half of one before Karen wrenched the bucket from his grasp, swearing she had extra time and didn’t mind one bit.

Chopping firewood with one hand was difficult, the axe was unwieldy and his muscles screamed at him to stop, but even poorly-chopped wood would burn just fine, right?

“Arthur,” Charles greeted quietly. Arthur startled all the same, nearly catching his thigh with the axe. Arthur, wholly out of breath, could only nod in response. He eyed the pile of wood remaining— he’d managed less than half— and a quiet dread weighed heavily in upon his shoulders.

Wordlessly, Charles took the axe in hand, away from Arthur. Though he may not have meant his glance to be quite so pitying, Arthur shriveled under it nonetheless. Without argument, not that he were capable of posing one with the way his chest burned, Arthur pursed his lips together and stalked off.

His hand shook, muscles worked beyond measure in just the few hours he’d been up and about. Arthur cringed at his newfound weakness and the exhaustion creeping into his bones.

  
Coffee, then. All he needed was some coffee, and he could get back to work.  
He set a cup on the table and lifted the pot with ease. A little planning, he decided. With one arm out of commission, he just needed to plan things a little better. Can’t hold the cup and pour so he uses the table. He silently prides himself on his innovation, though it served only as a reminder of how slow his mind worked these days.

In the next moment, a sharp bolt of pain bit into him. The coffee pot clattered into the dirt, scalding droplets soaking into everything within ten feet, including Arthur. He let out a cry, but bit it back just as quick.

  
“Son of a bitch,” he groaned, torn between soothing the new wave of white-hot prickling and tending to the burns along his forearm.

  
“Are you all right?”

  
He whirled on his heels at the sound of Mary-Beth’s voice, somewhere between startled and embarrassed.

  
“‘M fine, dropped the goddamned pot, can’t even pour myself a damn cup of coffee.”

  
She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, lingering for a moment. Mary-Beth’s eyebrows furrowed softly.

  
“Arthur, why don’t you just go lie down. I- I’ll clean this up.”

  
“You don’t gotta—“

  
“It’s fine,” Mary-Beth smiled at him tightly, the dark circles under her eyes prominent even in the blinding midday sun. Arthur felt his stomach drop, his cheeks burning with shame. He mumbled a quick thank you, but rather than retreating to his tent, Arthur merely shambled through the camp, searching for something— anything— he _could_ do.

He worked in silence, grateful that most folks seemed to ignore him as he trudged through camp, offering little more than a pleasant ‘hello’ or a nod of their head as they passed. Bill did make a point of laughing at the sling, needling Arthur with questions of what the hell he was going to do with one arm, but Arthur paid him no mind. He pushed the searing thrum of pain, allowing the bubbling anger to burn away his exhaustion. He’d done these chores hundreds of times, he should be able to do them with his eyes closed, _so why the hell is he struggling so much with just one arm_?

Feed the chickens, maybe a little too much, wasting feed until Tilly had to step in. Drop sacks of grain at Pearson’s wagon, if a little roughly, until Lenny came and took the sack off of his shoulder. Carry washing for the women, though a few things got dropped in the dirt, until Jack came, _goddamned four year old Jack Marston_ came and took the washing from him because he couldn’t even manage a child’s task.

By mid afternoon, Arthur’s hands shook fiercely, and his heart raced in his chest. He declined a bowl of stew, helpfully brought to him by a tired Abigail, knowing that he’d vomit if he tried to eat. Others needed it more anyways— others who had actually managed to work that day.

For a moment, Arthur sat, hating the way folks whispered about him, glancing over ripe with worry and pity. He watched the men buzz about, filtering in and out of camp with more frequency than Arthur had ever seen, not that he had ever stayed in camp long enough to keep track. Those who weren’t on watch at any given moment were out and about, finding meager jobs and robbing pennies from travelers. Sadie, too, had taken off, returning every few hours, her pockets lined with watches and cigarettes, maybe some cheap jewelry, whatever she could scrounge up from wherever she had been.

Hosea was out on a job. Dutch was out on a job. He couldn’t remember the last time the two of them were in camp— truly a testament to the dregs they had fallen to.  
Miss Grimshaw’s shrill yell cut through the ringing in his ears, jolting him from his thoughts.

“ _Mary-Beth!_ Oh, where is that useless girl— Mary-Beth! I thought I told you to get done with the mending! What the hell have you been up to?!”

  
“I’ve been— the coffee spilled, I had to clean the mess, and—”

  
“That’s no excuse, spilled coffee is the least of our worries right now. You lazy, no-good— That mending pile is atrocious! Ain’t like folks can afford to get new clothes at the moment. See that it’s done by tomorrow morning or there will be hell to pay!”

  
“Yes, Ms. Grimshaw,” Mary-Beth bowed her head sightly, and Arthur could see the tears brimming in her eyes.

  
Nausea churned in his stomach.

“And just who in the hell was so sloppy with the firewood?” she screeched, storming into the center of camp, “That is a goddamned disgrace! You fuckers can’t even chop firewood right— what good are you?! Look at all this wasted wood…”

After her too-loud tirade, she seemed to notice Arthur, sitting with his forehead resting on his elbows beneath a tree.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, sending a shudder through him, “If you’re well enough to gossip with the women, you’re well enough to work. Get off your ass- it’s time you started pulling your weight. We’ve no use for petulant children.”

Arthur groaned, “I been workin’, all damn day. Or— or trying to….“

“Well, I certainly haven’t seen any work done, all I seen was you distracting my girls. This entire camp is in shambles Mr. Morgan. We’ve all been taking care of you, it’s about damn time you returned the favor.”

And he got up. Not because Grimshaw was right— were Arthur any less exhausted, he would’ve told her to go pound sand— but because he had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Thanks for stopping by. Buckle up, because this is just the beginning of the longest work I've done in a while (so forgive me if it gets a little bumpy along the way, I'm still learning!)
> 
> There's going to be some sorta heavy stuff in here, nothing obscene but still anything particularly upsetting will be tagged and put in notes before the work. If you have to skip a chapter for any reason, I'm happy to provide a summary without the upsetting material so you don't miss out.
> 
> I eat, breathe, and sleep comments, so come say hi!


	2. I. II

When Arthur was a boy, barely seventeen, he got his leg broken in a fight. It was a stupid mistake, one that was _almost_ entirely his fault. He couldn’t quite remember how the fight had started or how exactly his leg got broken, or how he got back home afterwards, bruised and bloodied as he was— those memories had been washed away with time— but he could remember Dutch shouting at him afterwards as Hosea patched him up; screaming about how they had _plans_ , and now not only could they not work the jobs Dutch had painstakingly set up for them, they couldn’t even leave the tiny, nowhere town they were holed up in.

 _“What if the law comes, you fucking moron,”_ Dutch had said at the end of his long tirade, “ _We are wanted men, we can’t afford to be laid up waiting for you to recover from your goddamned mistakes!”_

Hosea had calmed Dutch down after that, pulled him back by the collar as if he were a rabid dog, but Dutch refused to speak more than a word to Arthur for weeks. Hosea would tell him, months after his leg was healed and that nameless place was left behind, that Dutch had worked for days to line up a series of cons, arguably some of the most intricate plans he’d concocted to date. Each banked on Arthur as a key player, in one way or another. With Arthur down for the count, Dutch had to scrap the whole thing.

According to Hosea, Arthur’s broken leg cost them at least two thousand dollars.

Arthur never quite shook away that guilt— through all of the struggles, the deaths, the sorrow that came after, those words would float to the surface, a chilling reminder of perhaps his biggest mistake.If not his biggest then his most expensive. He’d wonder, quietly, where they might have gone if they’d managed to get those two thousand dollars.If, maybe, they’d be living happily by now if only he hadn’t picked that fight.

Dutch and Hosea did attempt _one_ of the heists without Arthur, hoping to cash in on some of the hard work they’d put in. The sheer rage that burned, red-hot and sharp, in Dutch’s eyes as he returned, carting an injured Hosea and licking his own wounds, pockets empty, haunted Arthur for the rest of his days. That look— that Dutch— was a recurring figure in his nightmares.Empty. Disappointed.

Now once again, Dutch was alight with the same anger he’d known all those years ago— but somehow this was worse.

The anger was never directed at Arthur and that was _worse_. Dutch wasn’t just mad. He was livid. He was disgusted. He was ashamed that his own son— the man he had poured so much time and effort into— let something like this happen; let his family suffer for a _month_ while he was injured. Arthur could hear as Dutch unleashed his upset onto the folks around camp, shouting and berating and threatening, and cursing Arthur in every way but name. Screaming at him without even looking in his direction.

Arthur hated it. He wanted nothing more than to be yelled at— to have Dutch storm up to him, red in the face, and tell him how much of a fucking idiot he is because _what the hell is he supposed to do with a one-armed enforcer?_ What good was Arthur if he couldn’t hold his own in a fight, or properly shoot a rifle, or use a bow and arrow, or any of the things he had to do to keep this gang alive?

Dutch would kick him out— not directly, though; Dutch would manufacture a way to get Arthur to leave of his own accord. Arthur knew it; he knew it was coming any day now.He’d seen it done before. If he didn’t work now, the next time he saw Dutch would surely be the last. All that resentment was building inside of Dutch’s mind, swelling, ripe, and Arthur knew it was a matter of time before it was unleashed upon him.

At the same time, in the same breath, he quietly hoped they could avoid each other forever; pretend the other didn’t lurk just outside of their field of vision. Arthur could keep his head down, doing chores around camp to earn his keep, and Dutch would find a new right hand man.

So Arthur had to work. He had to, even if it killed him. He had to show he could still be useful because if he couldn’t then what was the point of any of this?

Except he couldn’t. He couldn’t even manage that, if Grimshaw’s rage were anything to judge by. If the messes he had left in his wake— his chest welled with shame as he realized others now scurried about camp cleaning up after him— were anything to judge by, he’d be out before the day was done unless he pulled himself together. Arthur felt the wound on his shoulder crack open again as he forced himself back onto his feet, chasing the stinging pain back with a wash of whiskey from the flask he kept tucked in his pocket.

That night, Arthur laid in bed, awake. Time dragged along slowly, painstakingly, and he could feel every second pass by like sandpaper along his skin. The camp was more or less quiet now— Hosea had forced him back to bed when he returned, followed shortly by Dutch.

Hosea was incensed. Of course he was; his day chasing leads was a waste, followed by an evening of chastising Arthur for being up and about despite his direct orders to stay in bed. Dutch, the moment he set foot in camp, was shouting again, barking at everyone passing by. Even Molly gave him a wide berth, as she had so frequently these past few weeks. Dutch’s mood was contagious, it seemed, as the shouting spread, leaving everyone on edge and fuming, fighting with anyone who so much as made eye contact. Every shout, every tear, every biting remark made in passing, Arthur could hear it all, and each seemed meant for him.

Now, though, they had quieted, seething in their own sleeping quarters. Arthur listened to the hushed, worried tones of the people sitting around the fire, spilling their woes into the dirt. Each time he heard his name, spat soundlessly as though it were taboo, he grit his teeth a little tighter, fingers dug hard into his useless arm as though maybe if he pressed hard enough it might awaken once more.

He could hear footsteps as they crunched through the dirt, approaching Dutch’s tent. From here, he could see the man was still awake, his tent lit like the alleys of Saint Denis; blinding, luminescent, and pretty, if you didn’t pay it more than a moment’s attention.

“Hey boss.”

Micah. Arthur frowned; he could hear the fake concern dripping from the man’s tone. If he tried hard enough, Arthur could imagine exactly what kind of expression the bastard wore— counterfeit empathy. Slimy, pallid, and conniving.

“What reason could you _possibly_ have for bothering me this late, Mr. Bell?”

Dutch sounded weary, his voice bearing a harsher edge than Arthur was used to, no doubt worn from all his yelling. Some small measure of karma, he mused.

“Well, I just heard that your job didn’t exactly pan out today, wanted to see if you were looking to bring someone on. I’d love to see the master at work, maybe pick up a few new tricks.”

“If I wanted _help_ , Mr. Bell, I’d ask for it. If that’s all—“

The shadow fatigue in Dutch’s voice was quickly rounded out by anger, stoked anew. Arthur knew Micah was cowering at Dutch’s feet now, happy to roll over and show his belly at the first sign of aggression.

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ’s just, things are difficult right now and we need to be properly utilizing our resources. Come to think of it…” a pause, forced and theatrical, Micah’s sickly-sweet tone almost too much to bear. Arthur dreaded to hear what was next— surely, to be laying it on so thick, there was sure to be something awful to follow, “Morgan still ain’t working yet?”

“No,” Arthur could hear it from here- Dutch had his jaw set tight, the word spat through clenched teeth. He sat up slightly, forcing himself to focus, to draw in every stray word.

“Folks is getting antsy, Dutch. If he can’t keep up, maybe we should do some restructuring. Trim the fat, so to speak.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying, maybe it's better for all of us if we cut him loose. If Morgan’s too injured to go on, a life on the run would only hurt him unnecessarily, and it’s certainly hurting us. It might be kinder to let him go— people are angry, they’re sick of starving just to feed folks that ain’t able to return the favor. Without that arm, he’s dead weight, I think we all know it."

“I don’t have time for this.”

Not “no”. Not “go fuck yourself”. Not “Arthur’s my son and he’s always welcome in this gang, even if he had no arms”.

_“I don’t have time for this”._

Arthur’s breath caught in his chest. The world around him was consumed in static, sound and sight blurring into a single, wholesome nothingness.

"Look, all I’m saying is…. Ain’t a soul alive what’ll cower at the sight of _half_ an enforcer. He might be the meanest son of a bitch alive, but with just one arm… He’s a _liability_ , Dutch.” 

He had half a mind to beat the hell out of Micah; to pull him out of Dutch’s tent by his hair and kick his teeth in.

 _“Who’s a liability now?”_ he’d scream, watching the rat sputter and drown in his own blood, _“Who’s dead weight now?”_

But he didn’t because Arthur _was_ a liability and he knew it— dead weight who knew too much, could do too little, and had nothing left to lose. Loyalty means nothing unless backed by action, and he wasn’t capable of action anymore. All he had left was desperation, he thought, and desperation was deadly- the very antithesis of everything Dutch had ever taught him. 

Arthur stared at the canvas ceiling of his tent until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, folks! (or afternoon, or evening, or night) The long-awaited chapter 2 (was anyone actually waiting for this?) has arrived! I know its a slightly slower start than most fics, but I promise things start getting worse (better?) fast. You can expect a new chapter every Thursday and Sunday, so keep an eye out if you'd like.
> 
> I hope you all are well; sometimes things are awful and sad, but we have to persevere, even when it seems like things will only get worse. I'm not gonna tell you to be happy, but at least don't force yourself to be sad, y'know?
> 
> Ha, a philosopher I am not. As usual, comment if you want to comment, or don't and that's fine too. I really do enjoy chatting with you all!
> 
> Catch you later, gators!


	3. I. III

The sky was brimming pink and blue as the sun rose over Lemoyne. Arthur roused at this; he hadn’t slept, he could tell by the way his head felt fit to burst, but he certainly couldn’t account for the past few hours. His eyes felt sandy and dry. His bones were stone and his skin plaster, unyielding as he pushed himself out of bed, unfeeling. Arthur forced his feet into his boots, regretting every second of it.

Hat. Satchel. Guns.

“‘M goin' out,” Arthur grumbled, pushing a wide berth around Dutch’s tent and slipping past John and Javier, the pair commiserating over their shared graveyard-shift on watch.

“Bout time,” John huffed, recoiling at Arthur’s dark expression, “What, I’m down a week with my face tore open and you intend to ridicule me until we die, but _you_ get shot— in the shoulder, no less— and stay down a goddamned _month_ and I can’t say word one? Lighten up, Morgan.”

“You okay, Arthur?” Javier knit his brows tight, “Maybe I should get Hosea…”

Arthur could see Hosea on the other side of camp, drinking his morning coffee as he tacked up Silver Dollar. Judging by his slicked back hair and starchy attire, he was leaving to swindle some of the higher society city folk lurking around Saint Denis. Arthur’s mouth ran dry. He swatted Javier’s hand away, pulling his shoulders back and taking another step towards his horse. He kept his voice low, praying Hosea didn’t look over and catch a glimpse of his departure. Lord, he might never hear the end of it.

“I’m fine,” he lied, “I just have to get out of camp for a while. I’ll be back—“ He wanted to go— really go, for a week or more— to soothe the ache in his bones, but something in his stomach stirred at the thought of leaving for so long, “I’ll be back by tonight.”

“Okay, but…”

“Jeez, Javier, if he wants to go, let the man go. Lord knows we can use all the help we can get ‘round here…”

John pushed past, Javier close behind, seemingly fighting with words that all died on his tongue. They continued their path to the coffee pot, Javier casting one final, concerned glance over his shoulder; Arthur snuck over to his horse.

Odessa, a handsome Dutch Warmblood mare he’d stolen off a particularly nasty bounty hunter, was overjoyed to see her man. She hadn’t fared well at the hands of the O’Driscolls, her coat was now knotted with scars and her tail tangled with mats he hadn’t been able to brush out. She recovered well, according to Kieran. The boy had taken it upon himself to get her back in fighting shape and Arthur hadn’t realized how grateful he was until just then as she nearly knocked him off his feet with an affectionate head-bump, their shared ordeal seemingly forgotten.

“Hey, Darlin’,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers, “This ain’t gonna be fun”.

In one clumsy motion, Arthur hauled himself into her saddle, thankful Kieran had left her tacked in preparation for a morning ride. He flailed, kicked, and bit, jostling his useless arm in the process, but damn it if Arthur didn’t get himself perched atop her back. He was glad nobody was around to witness this feat, nor the way it left him breathless. He whispered words of comfort to her all the while.

The weight of his guns around his hips, the familiar lines of the saddle beneath him, the hug of his hat atop his head, it all brought a warm, sticky feeling to Arthur’s stomach. Quietly, he prodded Odessa into an easy trot, ducking beneath trees as they skirted out of camp, careful to avoid prying eyes.

If nobody saw him go, they couldn’t be disappointed when he came back empty handed.

Not that he planned to come back empty handed. He had a list, running in his head: twenty dollars, a deer, and some herbs. He had all day, no leads, and no way to use anything but his side arms, but Arthur was nothing if not bull-headed. If he couldn’t manage that short list—

Arthur shook away a particularly nasty train of thought. He had to.

-:-

If things could have conceivably gone more poorly, Arthur would be keen to know how. The first man he bushwhacked, if a lone cripple who looked like death warmed over waving a single pistol could even be considered bushwhacking, took off on his horse, and Arthur was a far cry too slow to hop back in Odessa’s saddle to go after him. The second had a friend following a few paces behind that Arthur hadn’t seen, and the pair managed to chase him off without issue.

He kicked down four doors to rob homes, sheds, and shops that looked abandoned, but each had already been picked clean. The fifth had a small band of angry hillbilly squatters camped inside who threatened to cook him alive if they ever saw him again. The sheer stench of that place and its residents assured Arthur of two things: there wasn’t anything there worth taking, and those kinds of folks would absolutely keep their word.

He _had_ managed to pluck some herbs, including a fistful of stinging nettle. Beyond a few sprigs of mint and some oregano, he didn’t find much. It’d been too dry as of late; nothing was growing.

He gathered only two dollars, taken from the slowly cooling bodies of a pair of O’Driscolls he’d found resting by the lakeside and had taken by surprise.Hardly enough to feed twenty or so mouths. Arthur drank, hoping to wash away the sting of failure. Yet it persisted, even after he abandoned his flask for some nasty whiskey he took from the O’Driscolls’ bags. He saturated in a dry exhaustion, as he did so often these days.

Arthur woke up unexpectedly, painfully propped against a tree at the very edge of camp, overlooking the water. Odessa was curled by his side, her soft nose snuffling his hair. He didn’t remember falling asleep, which was not entirely unusual these days, and he only barely remembered returning to camp, intent on licking his wounds in peace for a few hours before heading out again. By the way the sun dipped low over the horizon, he’d been down for longer than anticipated.

He took another swig of whiskey, frowning as he nearly reached the bottom of the bottle. His entire body, every muscle, every bone, screamed at him, pushed too far and tapped dry. Maybe he should have camped in the Heartlands so the others could be spared such a pitiful sight. Maybe he should have let himself decay in his tent rather than trying to get out of bed today. The far-off complaints of the folks in camp only emboldened those thoughts. He could hear them, even from here, bleating about the conditions of the camp.

He drank.

That's when he heard it hobbling through the underbrush not ten yards off: a deer, hide gleaming gold in the setting sunlight, limped by, a foul red patch oozing at its flank. More than that, though: an opportunity.

Two dollars, not twenty. Nettle, not herbs. An injured deer, but still a deer.

Quietly, Arthur reached to his saddle, leaning a bit too heavily against Odessa; the Schofield at his side seemed entirely wrong for the job. He kept a cattleman there— not quite his preferred hunting rifle, which was currently caked with blood and waiting to be cleaned in his tent, and further still from his bow, but a dead deer is a dead deer regardless of how its killed. The revolver was stiff from disuse and felt foreign in his hand, but more than capable of killing a deer. What's more, as he helpfully reminded himself, he wasn’t exactly able enough to handle anything else.

Fucking useless.

Arthur drew in a quick breath, his shoulder crying out unhappily at the movement and unfamiliar weight, but nevertheless leveled his weapon. He breathed slowly, hoping to calm the tremor in his hand. His muscles screamed and bit. A cruel reminder, a flash of blinding white pain ran up his useless arm and into his neck. He curled against it but could do nothing to smother the fire. For a moment, he wishes he had died in that cellar.

Arthur stifled a cry of pain , and again of despair, as the deer clambered off, no doubt to die.

“ _Motherfucker!_ ” Arthur roared, falling back against the tree. He burned with rage, a forest fire he’d only just been able to subdue now devouring him again. The cattleman hung limply in his grasp. Even his good arm wasn’t quite so good. Arthur grit his teeth, welling with something cold and bitter. He drank.

Can’t even kill a goddamned deer. Can’t even kill a goddamned injured deer that fell right into his lap. He sat like that, stewing in that nasty swell of untamed thoughts as he tried to control his breathing. Fucking useless. Can’t even fucking breathe right.

He drank.

With a strangled yell, he hurled the cattleman into the woods. It landed only a few feet away, burning in the orange glow of sunset, mocking his inability to even throw a goddamned tantrum.

 _“Who’s there?”_ Lenny called out, somewhere in the distance, stuck on guard duty once again. He could do that, Arthur thought, despite the way his body protested and his lungs burned in desperation. At least that. Keep the camp safe, if he couldn't keep them fed. He didn’t sleep too much at night anyways. 

_“It’s just me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, loves!
> 
> Ah, chapter 3. The beginning of the end, so to speak. Warnings will start next chapter, I'll put those in the top notes so nobody gets surprised :)
> 
> Also, if you think I'm just throwing Odessa in because she's my horse and I love her, you're absolutely correct. Hopefully it doesn't stand out too much! I've always liked the idea of in-game Arthur using a warmblood because nobody else in the gang has one, and it's something he can bond with Hamish over later on. Not to mention, I think the seal brown coat is the prettiest in the entire game.
> 
> I hope you're all doing okay. Don't push yourself too hard; all things in time. It doesn't matter if you get there today, tomorrow, or ten years from now-- you'll get there. In the meantime, be good to yourself!


	4. I. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: abuse, implied suicidal thoughts
> 
> If either of these sound too upsetting, leave a comment and I'd be happy to provide a detailed summary of the chapter with the offensive material removed. :)

Arthur’s blood ran cold. Dutch was back. Dutch had gone out for now the fifth day in a row, no doubt making up for Arthur’s absence, and now he was _back_. Dutch was back and Arthur still hadn’t done _fucking anything_.

He had a list. Two dollars, some some nettle pricks, and an empty bottle of whiskey.

And he’d lost the fucking deer.

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, or at least tried to. He couldn’t quite get his legs underneath him, and no amount of cursing or damning seemed to make a lick of difference. So he sat, and he took another swig of whiskey, disappointed to find the bottle empty.

“Arthur, what are you doing out here?”

Arthur startled at the voice, damn near jumping out of his skin. He collected himself for a brief moment, hoping the panic didn’t show on his face. Dutch stood over him, an absolute monument— to what, Arthur couldn’t decide. His face was cast with shadow, but Arthur could see the hardened lines and the way he tensed his jaw. The way his eyes swept over Arthur for the first time in weeks— and what a sight he must be, hardly bathed, disheveled, pale, and thirty different colors of bruises, drunk out of his mind— made Arthur feel so… small.

“Nothin, Dutch, I—“

“… Nothing,” Dutch whispered, disappointment seeping into his tone as each word coaxed his voice louder and louder, “We are out here dying and you’re out in the middle of the goddamned woods drinking and doing _nothing_.”

Dutch looked all wrong; haggard, unkempt, and wild; deep, dark circles nested under his eyes. Arthur could feel it in the air, like the howl of wind before an awful storm; a fight brewing on Dutch’s tongue, a scream building in his lungs. He braced himself, ready to weather the coming tempest, but Dutch merely let out a gruff sigh. His shoulders fell. One of them stunk of cheap booze and stale blood, but Arthur couldn’t place who. Dutch ran a hand over his eyes, turning to walk back to camp.

“… Go get some rest, Arthur,” Dutch’s voice was too calm; too sweet. Far, far too kind.

That tone, pitying and soft, turned Arthur’s stomach.Suddenly, a thought gripped Arthur tight around the throat, choking the breath from him.

Maybe it _wasn’t_ about the arm, he thought.

Dutch had been putting distance between them since well before Blackwater. They stopped working jobs together, they stopped their impromptu fishing trips, they stopped going out just the two of them. Dutch’s tent creeped farther and farther from Arthur’s with every passing camp. They used to share a tent, all those years ago, now they barely share a word.

Arthur had brushed off these little changes as necessary; Dutch was busy, busier than ever, trying to run a gang and keep folks alive. Folks who were doing their damnedest to die, it seems. Folks like Arthur. That kind of pressure has to crack a man over time, so Arthur gave him whatever space he wanted.

But maybe, Arthur thought, the life slowly draining from his face, maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was more than stress. Maybe it was _him_.

Arthur was a changed man, he could admit that. Hell, a man changed a thousand times over. He used to be a damn near feral child, scared of his own shadow. Before that, a quiet mama’s boy, he thinks. These days, he was a far cry from the young man Dutch had poured so much time and effort into. His days as a carefree, mischievous boy were long gone; that boy had been burned too many times to ever expect anything but the worst. Now, in his old age, crueler; not cruel, but crueler. Mean, and bitter— less willing to suffer fools. He had burned protecting Dutch from the fires he continued to fuel. He was a much colder man trying to salvage something that was destined to fail; to protect someone that didn’t want his protection— to stand by someone who didn’t want him.

Those words sat, stagnant, at the front of his mind.

Dutch didn’t want him.

He’d known it, somewhere deep down, for years. He tried to make up for it over the years by working harder; if not better, then more. If not more, then meaner. Quicker to pull the trigger, quicker to draw blood, barely waiting for Dutch’s word before doing all the things Dutch never could.

_And now his arm doesn’t work._

He knew Dutch, too, was different— no longer the boisterous, lively man who had pulled Arthur off the streets and taught him how to live again. Now, he was perhaps the most notorious outlaw in the states, a man with the world on his shoulders, and Arthur should have known better than to poke at him.

But the thoughts slowly churned through his mind, sticky and black like molasses.

He hated the person he’d become; a little too much like someone else, and not just in the lines of his face and the coldness of his eyes. He was sure now that Dutch had seen it too. Dutch, the only other man alive who might recognize these changes, knew what Arthur had become and he _hated_ it. Of course he did.

He wants to ask. Lord have mercy, Arthur wants to _know_. He want to let his thoughts spill out into the dirt so Dutch can pick through them and _just fucking tell him what he’s supposed to do now._

Arthur says none of this, though. Instead, he spits out:

“You weren’t coming.”

He says it as a fact; no longer a matter of ‘if’ but of ‘why’. Dutch stopped. Stiff. His voice was dangerous and low. Thinking, always thinking.

“What?”

“You weren’t coming,” Arthur’s voice was flat and cold, every fiber of his being begging him to leave well enough alone. But like a festering wound, Arthur couldn’t help but pick at it. He couldn’t even look Dutch in the eye. “When the O’Driscolls had me, they kept on saying— and I didn’t believe them, but…. But you weren’t coming, were you?”

_Stop it. Just stop, just go._

“Arthur, that’s— you can’t have expected me to—“

Arthur pushed to his feet, feeling a thousand different kinds of wrong. He refused to look Dutch in the eye, unwilling to see the expression he knew was there, but he could feel as Dutch’s gaze slid away from him, down to his shoulder which no doubt had split open once again. Arthur dug his fingernails into the thick tree bark. Can’t even stand right. _He_ could never stand right either.

“Expected? No… I learned a long time ago I can’t go around expecting things from you-- but you should have,” Arthur spat, each word venomous and raw, “Y’know I nearly died, Dutch? Naw, too busy _plannin_ ’, I reckon, to care about your son dead not ten feet away.”

 _Leave it,_ his mind begged, _just let it go. Don’t make things worse, don’t give him a reason._ Something smaller whispered back: _better him than us,_ and Arthur wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

He shoved away the fear and pain; tried to swallow back the shame that sat in his throat like a stone. Arthur looked.

In twenty years, Arthur had seen plenty of Dutch. He saw the man at his lowest and at his highest. At his best, and his worst.He’d seen anger. He’d seen hate. He’d seen contempt, and exhaustion, and rage, and shame, but never once had he seen those things so pointedly directed at him. Yet Arthur couldn’t help himself. His tongue burned with the need to make things worse.

Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose. His features were heavy in a way Arthur had never known before.

“I think that's enough, Arthur. I _suggest_ you go take a walk before you do something you’ll regret,” Dutch growled, low and threatening; a command, not an offer. By now, the camp beyond them had fallen eerily silent.

But Arthur hadn’t finished hurting. Not by a long shot.

“You know, Dutch, ‘least my pa had the decency to hit me when he was mad.”

“I ain’t your father, Morgan,” Dutch snarled, whipping around and bringing his face so close to Arthur’s that he could feel the words hot on his cheeks, ”You be damn lucky I ain’t, or by now you would’ve been rotting in a shallow grave, and _nobody_ would give a shit, you understand me? We have all— every one of us— we have been sacrificing for you, and _this_ is how you repay us? By acting like a goddamned _child_?”

“You wanna talk about _sacrifices?_ ” Arthur roared, damn near laughed in Dutch’s face, seeing red, “You don’t know _shit_ about sacrifices. Do you have any idea the things I’ve done for _you_ —“ Arthur cringed at the volume of his own voice; at the desperation, and the twisted sense of satisfaction he got from the surprised look on Dutch’s face. Surprise and something else, Arthur didn’t care to know. With each word, he drew closer into Dutch’s face, wrapping his hand in Dutch’s collar, finally looking him in the eye, “—the things I’ve done for _this gang_? Who the hell do you think was doing all this shit _before_ I got butchered, huh? Who do you think was keeping everyone alive then? It sure as hell wasn’t _you_. Way I figure, if anyone’s deserved to do _nothin_ , it’s me.”

He didn’t believe his own words. Or maybe he did, somewhere deep down, and simply hadn’t accepted them. Either way, he and Dutch locked eyes in the dim light, both tense and roiling with hatred and vinegar. Arthur squared up to Dutch as best he could, feeling entirely out of control, hands still wrapped in his collar. So close; his muscles tensed as old instincts flared up. 

And Arthur, fueled either by that same instinct or by raw anger, shoved Dutch back, nearly knocking him off of his feet. Dutch stumbled backwards, eyes wide with shock. He basked in the way Dutch stared at him, mouth agape. Finally, finally out of things to say.

For a moment, dread swelled in his chest. For a moment, wrapped in those awful, sticky emotions that darkened his features, Dutch looked a little too much like someone else, a specter from his past, and suddenly Arthur couldn’t breathe. Gone was Arthur Morgan, ruthless outlaw and senior gun. In his place, a child, cowering in the back of a wagon while his father beat the shit out of his mother, completely lacking in the stubborn self-destructive bravado that had carried him here. Something deep inside him, something that was never allowed to be as small and vulnerable as it was, regretted every word of dissent.

Maybe Dutch didn’t notice the way Arthur had begun to tremble, eyes wide and breath shallow, trapped in the ethereal grip of memories from a long, long time ago. Maybe he didn’t care. Arthur wasn’t sure which was worse.

He knew what came next, when that glare, like a hungry predator caught in a trap, fell on him. For the first time in a long, long while, Arthur was _sure_ that Dutch would hit him.

And he did.

Dutch’s fist connected hard with Arthur’s jaw, leaving him awash in those awful, bitter memories as he crumbled to the ground with a groan. So goddamned useless, he couldn’t even push himself out of the dirt. Can’t cut wood, can’t clean clothes, can’t catch a deer, can’t use his fucking arm and— and yet—

And yet a small spark flared in his stomach, burning away the fear and guilt that filled his lungs. It seared away the pain that radiated through his body, quieting the veritable orchestra of hateful thoughts swirling in his gut, just as it had when he was a boy, beaten to near-death by his father just about every other day.

Indignation, he called it, as his mind slowly caught up with itself. It all boiled over.It screamed over the chorus of whispers telling him that he deserved to be screamed at— that he wanted, if not needed, to hurt.Every nagging, awful thought, every finely curated insecurity, every single goddamned thing he’d done wrong over the past twenty years, rendered torn and oozing and Arthur couldn’t stop it if he tried— and he didn’t try.

Dutch tried, Arthur could see it on his face, he tried to keep his voice steady and low, so as not to attract the attention of the drama-hungry camp. With each word, his resolve weakened more and more until it failed entirely, “You’d best check your goddamned tone, _Morgan_. You absolute fucking— we are all fighting for our lives, for our family, _for you_ , and you would sneak off without a goddamned word— _We_ are _dying_ , and you’re out here doing _nothing_. If you’re going to insist on wasting everyone’s fucking time, the least you can do is try to take some of the burden off of _their_ shoulders instead of sitting there like you’re some kind of _useless fucking drunk!_ ”

He preferred Dutch this way, some sick piece of his mind supplied. No plans, no speech, no practice; a thousand trains of thought all derailing each other in preparation for the next. Dutch’s fingers dug into his bad shoulder, balled into his shirt and lifting him from the ground.

“Fuck you, Dutch,” Arthur said, spitting blood into the dirt. He hoped his voice didn’t waver too much _._

“Excuse me?”

“I said—“ Arthur’s arm wrapped tight around his pounding ribs. He pried away Dutch’s grip from his shoulder, forcing himself to stand once more, “— _Fuck. You._ I’m _done._ ”

Dutch’s features were hardened and dark, even in the suffocating blanket of a stifling, swampy evening. His voice was eerily steady, like the blanket of scum bobbing atop the bayou, “… Go. ‘Fore I do to you what I did to your _daddy_.”

In that moment, that painful, icy moment that lingered between the two of them, Arthur didn’t doubt Dutch at all.

“What, you gonna kill me, Dutch?” Arthur let out a harsh, inhuman laugh at the sight of Dutch swollen with hatred. A welcome respite from the past month of pity. “Or will I have to do _that_ for you too?”

Dutch turned on his heels, a maelstrom of wrath and contempt.

And Arthur left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That happened.
> 
> Ah, good morning, darlings! It's chapter four and shit is finally kicking off! The return of Dutch, an explosive reunion, and it's all downhill from here. 
> 
> I hope you're all having a beautiful morning. Remember, you can reset the day at any point. Who says today has to start at midnight? I say today starts as soon as you say it does.
> 
> As usual, I love hearing from y'all in the comments. You guys keep me young. I appreciate my silent readers too; I might not hear from you, but I hope you're enjoying the story as well. 
> 
> Have a good one! <3


	5. I. V

Consciousness hit him like a freight train; its cargo was an aching throb that radiated through his muscles and tightened his chest. A cool but calloused hand rested on his forehead, his only savior from the grinding pain that seemed to fill him inside and out, like a mill full of gravel. Like chewing on sand, or drinking glass, or rolling around in fire ants, or something equally unpleasant, Arthur didn’t have time for fancy thoughts, he just knew he was hurting. Arthur groaned miserably. He was certain his death was imminent and couldn’t quite bring himself to care. The kind gesture was quickly followed by a satisfied hum.

Arthur blinked his eyes open, for a moment convinced that he might actually be dead, what with the bright light and numbing ache, and was slightly startled to find himself laid up in an actual bed, under an actual roof, with a familiar voice in his ear.

“You gonna bother getting up today?”

“Hamish?”

Arthur’s voice was dry and weak. His eyes slowly adjusted to the burning sunlight that seeped in through the windows, past the drawn curtains. Even that was too much. Sure enough, there sat Hamish, sipping coffee at the table.

“It’s about time,” Hamish offered a good natured smile, moving to help Arthur sit up before he was waved off. Instead, he moved to refill his cup. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”

Arthur chuckled, humorlessly, trying to rub the headache from his behind eyes.

“I say anything interesting?”

“Wouldn’t _that_ be a feat,” Hamish retorted, snickering at his own joke, “Your fever’s broke.”

Hamish’s cabin was small, filled to burst beautiful furs and trophies; memories of days gone by. Arthur could recognize some, and those he couldn’t, Hamish had told him all about over coffee the last time he was there. Despite this, the cabin was kept neat and organized, always smelling faintly of pine. Except today, it seems, as Arthur had brought the heavy stench of injury and regret with him.

God, he felt gross. All Arthur could focus on was the grime settled on his skin, sticking into his hair, and the way he absolutely could smell himself. Try as he might, he just couldn't gather the strength to wash— mental or physical. 

“Funny,” he rasped. Arthur knit his brows together. His arm was still pinned in the same makeshift sling, but his bandages had been replaced, including a few new swaths of gauze and some fresh bruises. His knuckles stung, scabbed and red where the skin had split, similarly to his face, which was sore and swollen in places. At least, more places than he could easily justify. His jaw ached at the vague whisper of memories that sprung to life. He cleared his throat, “What—uh, why—“

He didn’t know how to continue that thought, too many questions bubbled up at once. Hamish handed him a cup of coffee, more than happy to fill the air.

“Ah, I caught you down in Valentine, drunk off your ass and trying to beat the shit out of Grizzly Jon just outside of Smithfield’s. Can’t say I blame you, the man’s an asshole, but you seemed to be fixing to kill him. I pulled you off him and brought you back here, you seemed like you could use a hand. Ah— no pun intended.”

Arthur scowled at Hamish in playful anger, though his fingers curled tight into his cup. That anger, wiggling just beneath the surface of his skin, was far from playful. 

Usually, it was all he could do to keep himself burning with anger. Enough anger, at least, to distract from the gnawing pit that sat in his stomach. Anger could stave off the building fear, the loneliness, the emptiness. He pressed a thumb into the bruise on his jaw, black and purple and familiar and _wrong_. Beyond anger was something worse, something colder, something he would do just about anything to avoid for now because if he couldn’t— he didn’t want to think about what would happen if he couldn’t. If he didn’t focus— didn’t shove every ounce of the slick, dark goo that seemed to fill his lungs— he would surely unravel, and if Arthur had learned anything from these past twenty years it was that unraveling was _not_ an option. 

He drank, pushing back the aches and stings that festered inside him with the warmth of the drink. It was hard to be angry with good coffee, lightly sweetened, exactly the way he refused to admit he enjoyed, and a friendly face. Somehow, that felt worse.

“I uh… Sorry, Hamish. I— I’m sorry you had to—“

“Bah, don’t apologize. I finally got to see someone knock that bastard on his ass, it was well worth it. Got that goddamned ugly hat as a trophy, too. Gonna hang it on the wall. You got yourself mangled pretty bad in the meanwhile, I patched you back up as best I could; I ain’t no kind of doctor though, so if your _other_ arm falls off I ain’t responsible.”

“Ain’t fallen off, I still got the damn thing,” Arthur turned his attention to his arm, his bad arm, still bound in a sling. It didn’t hurt much worse than usual, but he could see that the bandages had been changed. His stomach twisted; he knew, if only vaguely what lay under those bandaged— what Hamish had seen. It wasn’t pretty. Arthur turned his head away, refusing to acknowledge the broken limb.

“I said I ain’t no doctor.”

“Well, for not being a doctor you sure did a fine job at patching me up,” Arthur mused, shifting to let his legs hang over the side of the bed, ignoring the stabbing throb in his lower back, “The hell were you up to in Valentine? Ain’t that a bit far?”

“Ah, feller there owes me a few favors. He’s the town doc, also happens to make some damn fine legs. Mine’s a bit worn down, thought it was high time for a replacement. I’d just wrapped up when you came flying through that window, all piss and vinegar.”

Arthur groaned, sipping his coffee again. He could feel that warmth knit something deep inside him back together, slowly but surely healing the gaping wounds Dutch had carved into him— that he had carved into himself. Being thrown through Smithfield's window again probably carved a few wounds into him too. 

“How… How long…”

“You been here a day and a half, more or less. Slept for most of it though. Don’t you worry none, Odessa’s out back with Buell. Got her all nice and pretty again, seeing as you bled all over her. Arthur you uh… You mind telling me what’s going on?” Arthur must have paled, or made a face, because Hamish quickly followed the statement with, “You ain’t got to tell me nothin’, I’m not the prying sort. I just gotta know if I should keep my gun on me or not.”

“No, you’ll be okay,” Arthur murmured into the swirling depths of his cup, “I was a damn fool. Did somethin real stupid, got my arm shot off and I... the life I’ve lead up til now weren’t possible any more, so I up and left it all. Ain’t gonna be a fight on my behalf.”

“Not from them, at least,” Hamish grumbled, “Grizzly Jon, on the other hand… Tell me, that mess on your shoulder— was it the same fool who caught you in the jaw? That bruise is too old to have come from ol’ Jonny.”

Arthur shook his head, hoping to chase back the memories of that night, “No that was…. Weren’t no one’s fault but my own, honest, I should’ve paid more attention.”

Arthur resisted the urge to fondle the bruise on his jaw; he was certain it’d sting if he did, and he’d only worry Hamish more. He was sure he looked a fine mess, bruised to hell and missing an arm, coated in dirt and stinking to high heaven.

“Right…. You doin’ okay?”

“I’m healing,” Arthur said with a groan, rolling out his good shoulder, “Ain’t like I never had my ass handed to me before, I'll survive. Fightin' didn’t do me any favors though.”

Hamish gave him a look, careful and studying, almost as though Arthur had answered the question wrong. Hamish pursed his lips.

“No, I guess it wouldn’t. Emotionally, then. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Arthur spat through grit teeth. He gripped his bad arm.

“Arthur.”

“I’m _fine_.”

Hamish chuckled dryly, absently patting his empty thigh, “Okay, kid. What’s the plan, then?”

“The plan?”

Hamish gestured broadly with his cup, now emptied and nothing more than a prop in their conversation, “Long term, short term, you got any ideas?”

He didn’t.

He’d like to pretend there was a plan, some end-goal, even the most rudimentary idea of what to do and where to go, but there wasn’t. Valentine wasn’t the first step on a long, well thought out journey— it was just the first place that came to mind. He certainly hadn’t planned on picking a fight, nor on getting scooped up by Hamish. He had gone to Valentine because he liked Valentine. He drank because he wanted to drink. Surely, too, he fought because he wanted to fight, though the memory was hazy at best. The most he could do was satisfy impulses as they arose.For the first time in a long, long while, Arthur didn’t have a list. He didn’t have a journal to keep track of what needed to be done, not that anything _had_ to be done anymore, and he certainly did not have a plan.

At some point before his brawl, he took stock of the few things he took with him. Usually, when he wasn’t running with his tail between his legs like a kicked dog, he’d plan out every inch of his satchel and saddlebags— what did he need, what could he leave behind, what could be replaced. Space was a precious thing, one Hosea had always taught him should never be wasted. He’d never had to pack on the threat of death should he ever return— at least, not like this. He’d never had to pick which of his few possessions he could live without seeing again and which he literally could not live without. The latter was a surprisingly short list— when the entire world is crumbling around you, suddenly everything seems a lot less important.

As he packed, he also considered, bitter and quiet, what he could take without stoking the ire of anyone in camp.

He brought his hat, his guns, some scant rations for Odessa, and the ten or so dollars he kept stashed away for a rainy day. Anything else— everything else— he left behind. Either he could buy it, find it, or he wouldn’t need it. He did bring the photo of his mother, as well as the little flower encased in glass, but left everything else in place. Unless they’d already sorted through his possessions, Bo’s horseshoe was still tacked to the wall, same with the photo of Copper and the portrait of him, Hosea, and Dutch from all those years ago. That one wasn’t even technically his; Dutch had lent it to him for safe keeping.

He left the picture of his father, having suffered under its glare long enough while he laid up in bed. 

And that was it. He left; no place to go, no coming back. Arthur was, for the first time in twenty years, completely unsure of what to do with himself. He knew he had to go, so he did. He just wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“I’m sure I’ll have a few folks to check in on, ‘fore I… move along.”

Hamish studied him for a second before offering a hesitant smile and a shrug, “Well, hey, if you ain’t got nowhere to be, why not stick around here a while. I’ve set a pot of chili on thats far more than I can manage alone. Stay a few days, ’til I have to go back to Valentine for that new leg. It’s damn boring ride without company, and I’ll set you right back where I found you.”

Arthur dug his fingers into the meat of his bad arm, hoping to push away the pins and needles there. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. There was no pity in Hamish’s tone, no sense of obligation. 

“Sounds good, Hamish. Thank you…”

“Ah, don’t you thank me. I’m putting you to work, don’t you doubt it.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Arthur chuckled, finally feeling the trembling of his hand lessen. The tension in his shoulders was still there, and frustration sat just beneath his skin, but not quite so terribly as before.Still to impose on the man, even for just a few days, felt wrong. He'd have to make up for it somehow.

“Right,” Hamish slapped his thighs as he stood, “I know we are well overdue for a hunting trip, but my leg is aching and you look like shit. How bout you give me a hand with some chores, I’ll set you up a bed in the back, and we can turn in early tonight, spend some time catching up. Let's see… How's about you turn the horses out, let ‘em graze a bit. Grass is getting too damn long, whole mess of ticks have moved in, make my life a living hell. I got a few things to sell to that trapper in Roanoke, maybe tomorrow or the day after depending on the weather, could use a hand with that too. Ah, we should probably have lunch first... Well, go on, then! Up at at'em.”

Maybe he could be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning, you sweet summer strawberries! Thanks for stopping by! This chapter brings us to a new exercise in futility: an Arthur who needs help, but is perpetually 'fine'. 
> 
> For those of you keeping track, I’ve decided to alter how Hamish and Arthur meet just a little bit because I just can't stand the thought of Arthur only having such a wonderful friend in the days before he dies. It's the same general circumstances, but this time they meet shortly after Arthur and Hosea go after the legendary grizzly in chapter 2; I’d like to think Arthur stuck around for a few days tracking it after it ran off, which is when he comes across Hamish sitting against that rock and grabs Buell for him. Hamish would offer to help Arthur bag the bear as thanks for retrieving his leg, and afterwards would invite him to come fishing next time he’s in the area. A little different from canon, but hopefully not unbearably so. Literally none of that matters for the story necessarily, but hey, who doesn't like a bit of lore?
> 
> I hope you those of you that are well stay that way, and those of you that aren't find your wellness very soon. ♡ ♡ ♡


	6. I. VI

Hamish was twenty-three when he went to war.

Before that, he was simply a boy wandering the countryside, traveling across the world in a similar fashion to a dandelion seed, drifting aimlessly on the wind. With him drifted another young man, his best and only friend in the world. He couldn’t quite remember his name, call it age or something worse, but he remembered the boy’s striking red hair.

The pair of them were stolen away in the night; carefree young men one day, soldiers the next. Damn old ones, too; they stood in the ranks among boys as young as fourteen, their ages readily overlooked by the men in charge in the interest of spilling as much blood as possible. Red was only a handful of years younger than Hamish and even he looked far too old to stand among their numbers.

Red was eager though, as he always was; wearing the same lopsided grin in war as he had when fishing. 

When they went to battle, Red was always right there with him, attached at the hip, that smile plastered over his face. _‘Naw, y’ain’t getting rid of me’_ , he’d say, frequently enough that some 30-odd years later, Hamish could still hear the cadence of his voice plain as day. Musical, almost. Hamish hated war, as any rational man did, but he liked Red, so maybe it wasn’t all bad.

Within a few years, Hamish stopped being a soldier and became instead a one-legged veteran with a chip on his shoulder. Red stopped being a soldier in favor of being dead, cut in half by a cannon ball before either of them could realize what had happened.

He wasn’t really Red, or whatever his name was, when he died. He was a shell of his former self, haunted by the things he had seen. In the months before, he’d grown quiet and solemn. Angry, more often than not, and easy to upset. They shared their quarters, close as they were, and neither of them managed much sleep in the those last months. Red was plagued with strange and repetitive nightmares; Hamish stayed awake to soothe the boy back to sleep. Though he couldn’t remember his name, he remembered the nights Red spent curled into Hamish’s chest, sobbing. Wasting away. Try as he might to entice Red with conversations of fishing trips or dreams of the future, where they might go once the war was over, what they might become— all subjects Red had once spoken of with a wolfish grin— Hamish could barely get his friend to look him in the eye.

He didn’t talk much about Red after that. Cried, sure, but didn’t speak a word about him. Even now, the memory of his face twisted Hamish’s stomach and made his eyes burn.

Years later, after Red was long buried and Hamish had stopped suffering nightmares of his own, he’d realize that maybe Red’s death was for the best. Maybe it was far kinder for him to be at rest. The _real_ kindness would have been keeping that boy off of the battlefield in the first place. No man should have to witness the depths of war and death, but certainly not men so rare as Red; so kind, so fundamentally good.

Strangely, Hamish thought the same thing while staring at Arthur, who presently was squinting in the early morning sun, alternately sipping coffee and whiskey to ease into the vice-like grip of wakefulness. He saw a similar absence in the way Arthur moved; slow, automatic, as if his mind were wrapped in layers of thick cotton.

Arthur had spent the night writhing under the thumb of nightmares of his own. Those first two nights he’d been restless as well, but Hamish had brushed it off as a result of fever and nothing more. He didn’t dare ask what might have haunted the boy so; the empty look in his eyes was explanation enough.

“How you feeling?” he settled on, watching Arthur squeeze his eyes shut against what must be a pounding headache.

“Well as ever,” the man groaned, draining his coffee. He slammed the cup on the table, flinching at the noise. Hamish dutifully refilled it, as well as his own mug.

“Gotta restock today,” Hamish hummed, taking note of the provisions they had left, “Something fresh, if we can help it. I don’t know about you, but I’m a little sick of beans.”

Arthur had lost weight; Hamish had seen it when he’d first bandaged him up, and he saw it now in the way his clothes hung off of him. He’d always filled the boy with a nice, hearty meal after a hunt; clearly he was the only one. So step one, he decided: put some meat back on his bones, and food from a can wouldn’t cut it.

“I happen to like beans,” Arthur had taken to working his fingers into the muscle of his bad arm, clearly trying to remedy pain or tightness. Hamish knew the maneuver all too well; he did the same with his own stump.

“Well, _you_ can like all the beans you want. I’d like somethin’ that ain’t out of a tin. What are you thinking— you prefer fish or meat?”

“Either’s fine by me, don’t you do nothin’ on my account,” Arthur waved his hand dismissively, suddenly very interested in whatever was happening out the window.

“Got plenty of both around, kid. Ain’t doing nothin' for you,” Hamish curled his hands into fists, mind working, trying to figure out how he might force an opinion from the man. Instead, he watched as Arthur unhappily carded a hand through his grimy hair, barely suppressing a grimace. Change of plans, then. “Hows about this: you go wash up, see if you can’t stir anything up in the lake.”

“Wash up?”

“Yessir, go scrub yourself down. Water’s warmer than it looks these days, and you ought to at least wipe the dirt off your face. You keep on stinking so bad I’ll tether you up with the horses,” at Arthurs surprised look, Hamish added, “I’m only kidding. You smell fine; you look damn awful though. Think it’ll help you wake up a bit, too.”

The way Arthur paused, his hand once again digging into his arm, looking more than a little lost, set Hamish on edge.

“Go on, then,” Hamish urged him out gently. Without another word, Arthur left, stopping only briefly to pull a sliver of soap and a cloth from Odessa’s bag.

Hamish grit his teeth hard enough to hurt.

During one of their hunting trips a few weeks back, Arthur ended up covered in blood and caked in dirt. When Hamish had suggested then that Arthur bathe to spare them both from suffering his stench, Arthur had bit right back, instead aiming to smear as much filth onto Hamish as he could. It ended with Hamish shoving Arthur into the Calumet reservoir and the pair of them racing back to O’Creagh’s run, one soaking wet, the other laughing so hard he damn near cried.

This was a damn far cry from that. Arthur had never once done as he was asked without some meager rebellion. Feigned, of course, typically offered as he completed whatever task Hamish had given him, but rebellion nonetheless.

He liked Arthur. The boy was a pleasure to have around, and though he might never admit it aloud Hamish genuinely cherished their days together, whether it be spent hunting, fishing, or just shooting the shit. Arthur returned some of the youthfulness Hamish had long since lost. And if, on occasion, Hamish saw a bit of Red in his new companion, be it in the slightly lopsided grins or the well-meaning teasing, well, who could blame him?

The days before Red was gone, before he retreated so deep inside himself Hamish couldn’t have hoped to pull him back out, he was like this too; trying too hard, painfully so, to keep up appearances. Forced smiles, flat jokes, eyes crinkled in counterfeit happiness, painted on top of a lingering sorrow that Hamish could only barely see. On a good day, it was almost like it wasn’t there at all.

He saw that same sorrow now in Arthur’s face; the same anxiety biding its time just under his skin.

Hamish was going to kill whoever had done this to him.

In the interim, while Arthur bathed in the balmy waters of the run, Hamish pulled out a map and plotted, ignoring the muttered curses and frustrated sighs that cut through the walls. When Arthur returned, hair still slightly damp and clothing askew, a scowl etched into his face, Hamish pulled him over. He set about re-wrapping Arthur’s bandages without a single word, knowing Arthur would only refuse his help if given half a chance. Arthur had kept the bandages around his left arm intact, unwilling or unable to remove his sling and the gauze layered beneath during his bath. Hamish didn’t give it a second thought, nor did he balk at Arthur’s wound; it was healing, but not well. He tried not to stare at the boy’s arm, gruesome as it was. Arthur averted his gaze as Hamish took a washcloth to his busted arm, wiping away the crusted blood and grime that gathered there. His face was set in stone, clearly masking shame.

He could feel the tension in Arthur’s muscles; he could tell just how much Arthur hated being tended to like this.It was written plain as day over his face, held in a stoic facade to cover the discomfort brewing there. Hamish knew that look all too well. How much he hated Hamish’s touch; that, at least, was a constant. Arthur had never been particularly fond of Hamish’s physical affections, be it rough pats on the back, ecstatic hugs, or otherwise— he picked that up quickly, and did his best to curtail friendly touch. Hamish had no idea if it was him in particular or if Arthur didn’t like being touched in general, and he knew better than to ask.

As he worked, diligent and practiced, Hamish spoke, keeping Arthur’s mind off of… well, just about everything.

“You lose any fingers or toes out there?”

Arthur furrowed his brows, glancing back at Hamish, “Wha— _Should I have_?”

“If you still got em all, then there ain’t nothing worth catching out there today,” Hamish grumbled, sliding the map he’d been working on in front of Arthur, “C’mere, pick a spot to hunt. I marked out some of the best.”

Arthur groaned, either in exasperation or pain as Hamish tightened the bandaging around his arm yet again, “Gonna use me as bait there too? Cant exactly hunt right now, Hamish— I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m down an arm and a revolver ain’t gonna do much but make somethin’ real angry.”

“Will you just shut up and do as I say?” Hamish said with a grin, jokingly cuffing Arthur upside the head. He secured the sling once more, careful not to hurt Arthur’s arm.Free from Hamish’s jostling and prodding, Arthur pointed to the closest point on the map, a forest near Moonstone pond.

“Good choice,” Hamish beamed, “Saw some damn fine boar out that way, fat like you wouldn’t believe. I figure we grab a small one, should last us a good few days.”

They set out quickly, Arthur still drying in the warm morning sun. The forest was quiet, filled only by Hamish ranting on about the various creatures he’d seen along this road. Arthur hummed responses but otherwise was lost within his own head. Unsure of how, exactly, to coax Arthur out of his thoughts, Hamish put him to work. He wasn’t quite sure what else to do, but it had always worked for him: set the mind on a task so it can rest and recover. He hoped the same were true of Arthur, who was pulled from his thoughts as Hamish told him to find some tracks.

Arthur set to the earth like a bloodhound, delicately tracing tracks stamped into the mud and examining broken plants for signs of where the small herd of hogs might have gone. Hamish was right over his shoulder, the pair bickering back and forth about what they found and how it should be interpreted. It was still a far cry from Arthur’s usual banter, but it was something, and Hamish would take it.

He’d seen these kinds of men before; the men who simply wither and die without a purpose. Red wasn’t one of them, far too relaxed and carefree, and Hamish wasn’t either, too unwilling to bend to the will of others. But Arthur? He should’ve guessed a man with such a palpable pride and genuine nature would thrive where he found himself useful. A stern hand, then, Hamish decided. Something steadying. He could be steady.

They returned to O’Creagh’s run hours later, a small boar thrown across Buell’s back.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Hamish asked, filling the silence as the sun slunk low over the mountains to the west.

Arthur said nothing, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“You can,” he repeated, “Won’t mind one bit. Might even give some advice too. I’m not just a pretty face.”

“‘M fine, Hamish,” Arthur replied, flat.

“I’m sure you are. Don’t mean you can’t still talk to me.”

As they entered the cabin, good and tired, Hamish sent Arthur off with a wave of his hand, “Why don’t you go on and start a pot of coffee, I’ll finish butchering the pig.”

He saw the way Arthur hesitated, and turned on his heel haughtily. In just the fews days Arthur had been there, Hamish had picked up on this particular quirk: if Arthur didn’t think he could do something with just his one arm, he quieted down and avoided it entirely rather than admit to his inability. It’d be fine— Hamish wasn’t about to force the man to do anything he didn’t want to— if Arthur didn’t have a skewed idea of what he was actually capable of. Unfortunately for Arthur, Hamish had worn that look once— Red had, too, for different reasons— so he knew damn well that Arthur could manage; it wouldn’t be pretty, and it wouldn’t be fun, but he could, and he would, and he should.

“Go on then,” Hamish barked, too obviously feigning anger, “And don’t you go telling’ me you can’t brew coffee with a bad arm. You’re a smart kid, and coffee ain’t that hard. I’m old, I got one leg, let me sit and cut up a hog, you stand there and make coffee. ‘Tween the both of us, we might manage something resembling dinner.”

Arthur’s face split into a tiny grin, covered quickly by false exasperation, “Old bastard. Ain’t even said nothin’ and you’re shouting at me. Fine— fine. Sure.”

“Oh, and change outta that shirt. Ain’t good for your wounds to be wearing something dirty— take somethin’ from my dresser, I don’t much care what.”

It couldn’t have been more than half an hour later when the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted over, followed by Arthur.

“Coffee’s done,” he mumbled, leaning against the fence near Hamish, who was rolling the boar pelt. That same quiet look; Hamish quickly keyed in to Arthur’s thoughts.

“Thank you kindly, I’ll fix some for us in a second.”

Arthur took a deep breath, filling himself with the cool, crisp air of Ambarino.

“You don’t mind having me here?” he asked, after a moment, “I know I ain’t too much good, but—“

“Nonsense, you made coffee and tracked a boar. That’s plenty good for me. Arthur, you uh… Ever seen a coyote stuck in a trap?”

“Naw, I do my best to keep away from animal traps. Seen what they can do to a man, seems wrong to leave it for an animal, even if its just a coyote. Why?”

Hamish nodded without turning from his work, continuing to slice at the hog with practiced ease. His face tightened with focus. He’d mapped this whole talk in his head, planned each word carefully.

“Well, when a coyote gets caught in a trap, it starts biting its own foot off, since, to the coyote, chewing off a foot seems a far better deal that whatever happens in that trap—”

“I ain’t sure I follow.”

Hamish smiled, a slight, small thing; he never was good with words. Arthur wasn’t either. He could see it on the man’s face though; whatever Hamish was about to say, Arthur wasn’t ready to hear, whether he could piece it together from Hamish’s poorly planned lecture or not.

“Ah, don’t mind me, ain’t nothin but a crazy old man talking to himself. Why don’t you take this meat in, chuck it in the fire for a bit, see if we can’t get ourselves some dinner.”

Another day, then.

Arthur took an armful of the freshly trimmed pork, casting one more confused look before disappearing inside. Hamish set his jaw.

He hadn’t been able to help Red when he needed it most. Hell, nobody had helped him when he was freshly back from war, missing a leg, and angry at the world with nowhere to turn. He knew the overwhelming loneliness that Arthur felt.

He wasn’t about to lose another hunting partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll give a few extra brownie points to anyone who can pick out exactly where Hamish was going with that coyote analogy. I did write out an entire scene where he goes through it and explains a little more, but I figured it was best to leave it with Arthur dumb and Hamish not quite sure how to help him, especially with some of the other things looming on the horizon. It comes back around in a few chapters, so I’ll spill the beans on that then, if anyone cares! 
> 
> A bit of a switch in POV here. We will get back to Arthur in just a bit! It will be a recurring thing though; maybe not Hamish’s POV, but someone else’s. I know some folks aren’t fans of switching POV’s; if that's you, feel free to leave a comment and I will very briefly summarize anything important you may have missed, and I’ll let you know when the next Arthur-centric chapter will be posted :). I swear I (probably) know what I'm doing though! 
> 
> And holy cow you guys, last night I started the first draft of chapter NINETEEN! And it's not even close to the end! This is AFTER I cut a whole bunch out of the story! What have I gotten myself into... Buckle up, kids. We're in it for the long haul. 
> 
> I hope you all are keeping yourselves happy, what with the world falling apart around us. You survived yesterday, and you'll survive today, and I'm willing to bet you'll survive tomorrow, too. You be good! ♡♡♡♡♡


	7. I. VII

Dutch awoke miserably hungover once again, feeling as though someone had taken him in their hands and wrung him like a cloth. Through his regret, guilt trickled back slowly; steadily. This was apparently a new habit of his, given how frequently he repeated the experience over the past week. He drank, at first, as part of the job; when the conversation turned sour and it was clear he wouldn’t get what he wanted, he drank to forget.

Six goddamned leads in a row, six _plans_ , up in flames.

After the first two, he stopped bringing others along. Fewer variables, fewer moving parts that could malfunction. At this point, it was clear _he_ was the malfunctioning part. Rather than sit and watch people starve and suffer, he kept going; kept chasing. Dutch never had a stomach for suffering, not even his own. He drew in a shuddering breath. How he could be the cause of such varied torment was beyond him, but to listen to the gang one might think he was the root of all known evil. Maybe he was— he didn’t know anymore.

And so, in the interest of ending suffering, Dutch worked. He kept himself away from camp, away from curious gazes and hungry glares. He chased lead, after lead, after lead, often bringing back barely enough to keep the camp afloat until the next day. This was the fifth day in a row he’d gone to bed drunk and awoken hungover. Surely, if this pattern continued, he would die.

Ah, but even if he were to die, he’d find himself followed by these same barking masses, these same pitiful faces, pleading, and crying, and starving, and hurt, happy to escort him to the gates of hell.

He hoped Hosea had more luck; the man had had yet to return from his job robbing someone, or maybe stealing something, Dutch didn't actually know.

“Hey, Dutch?”

John Marston poked his head through the canvas flaps of the tent sheepishly, his features bearing an emotion Dutch couldn’t quite recognize. Nor did he particularly try, slightly too engaged in his own thoughts to bother looking up from the book he was pretending to read.

Absently, with a slight scowl that was all too familiar these days, he flipped the page, punctuated with a harsh, “Make it quick, son,” as if he had anything more pressing to tend to beyond his self-piteous wallowing. 

John’s gaze swept through the tent, his nervousness apparent in his voice, “Sorry, just... you seen Arthur?”

“Should I have?” Dutch closed the worn book pointedly, making no small show of his distaste for interruption. He hoped frustration could mask pain; the way John stared at him suggested otherwise.

“No, it’s just that he’s not in his tent, ain’t nobody around camp seen nor heard from him since…. since you two… I was hopin' you had some idea of where he ran off to.”

Dutch huffed at this; he only barely remembered the events of his fight with Arthur, and worked to keep them at bay. Vicious and unnecessary; if he thought too long about it he was set aflame once more, left to drown in some unknown mixture of guilt and rage. Each time it bubbled to the surface, he smothered that night with more. More work, more booze, more thinking, more money, more plans. Hell, he wished he could smother the past _month_ in the same way; bury those memories so deep that they wouldn’t resurface, even in sleep. If the past few nights were anything to judge by, that would be wholly impossible. 

“It’s _barely_ noon. Ain’t never been a problem before, Arthur just needs a bit more alone time than the rest of us. You know that.”

And John did know. Hell, everyone knew. For some reason nobody ever quite explained, Arthur went stir-crazy with much more ease than the average man. Staying in one place too long rendered him antsy and miserable, turning him into an irritable bastard ready to bite the head off of anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way— which, traditionally, was John, though he’d seen the others get their fair share of the man’s nasty ire. The only fix was for Arthur to vanish, disappearing for days on end to do God knows what, God knows where, God knows why. It didn’t matter all that much; he always came back, quietly filling the box and Pearson’s table with the spoils of wherever the hell he had been. Sometimes, Arthur would stick around as much as a week before setting out again. Others, he’d drop by long enough to empty his pockets before he took off.

The very first time Arthur had gone, he’d done so without word or warning, nearly driving Dutch and Hosea to early graves in their desperate search to find him. The talking to Arthur got when he returned the next evening lasted for nearly six weeks and ended with an ever-alert pair of outlaws watching his every move for the next year. At some point they eased up, happy to let the man run off as he pleased, but only once they had John to fawn over.

Having been trapped in his tent for a month, injured and stuck without reprieve, the man must’ve been losing his mind. Dutch dug his fingers into the edges of his book as hard as he could manage. He knew the feeling.

“Right, yeah, but last anyone heard, he’d stormed out of camp a-after the two of you had it out… Sean was on watch and saw him go, and according to him, he weren't looking too good—“

Dutch’s temper grew shorter by the second, and that impatience drew deep lines into his forehead and bled through into his tone, “John, Arthur is a _grown man_. We can’t expect to keep him in camp if he doesn’t want to be, and we can’t very well keep a record of the man’s comings and goings— what he does is his own business. I’m sure he’s just cooling off, grant him that at least.”

“Dutch, that was three goddamned days ago. No one’s seen him since.”

That certainly caught Dutch’s attention. He set the book aside, sitting up a little straighter despite the aching in his joints. His shock, in part, was simply because, try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything in particular about those three days, much less that they had passed; at this point, the past month had bled together in one long, unending nightmare. 

“He’s been gone for that long and nobody thought to mention it until now?”

“Well, nobody really noticed til this morning...” John mumbled, equal parts shamed and sheepish, “We all thought he went and caught up with Hosea, but Hosea got back just now and—”

At that moment, Dutch was startled by a furious roar.

_"DUTCH VAN DER LINDE!”_

John quickly made himself scarce, eyes childishly wide and face pale as he slipped out of Dutch’s tent before hell could unleash itself. He knew that tone all too well. Unfortunately, so did Dutch.

“Oh for the love of— ”

“What the hell did you do?”

Hosea’s face was painted with rage, twisted and tired. The man had been on a job for days, working tirelessly to keep the gang afloat, only to return to the aftermath of apparent chaos. His ire was understandable, but no less frightening. Dutch flinched at the volume of his voice, his head pounding harder than it had before. Again, he bellowed, louder, closer, _"What the hell did you do?"_

“Hosea, if I deigned to guess at what you might be referring to, we would be here all day.”

The way Hosea stared at him for a moment let Dutch know that playing dumb was absolutely the wrong answer.

“Oh, you know goddamn well what I’m talking about, _Van der Linde_. The girls told me all about it— I don’t know who the hell you think you are treating him that way! I was only gone a few days, how the _hell_ did you manage to fuck everything up so royally?”

Dutch reeled back. Hosea wasn’t one to curse so readily. Then again, the man wasn't typically one to shout like this either. Dutch collected himself, as much as he could with such hatred rolling so potently off of his dear friend.

“I’ll have you know, _I_ did not do a damn thing. We got into a bit of a disagreement, that is all. Now, things may have gotten a little _heated_ , but _Arthur_ is the one who—“

“A little heated,” Hosea replied flatly, raising his brows in disbelief. Dutch could have sworn he saw steam pouring out of his ears and fire in his eyes. “ _A little heated?_ They’re saying you ran him off! Told me you hit him and threatened to kill him then and there if he didn’t leave, and you call that _a little heated_? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Hosea dissolved into weak coughs, but the fire inside him didn't dim for a second. Dutch reached out a hand to steady the man, but was callously smacked away. He recovered within a moment, carrying on without a missed beat, "He’s _hurt_ , Dutch, and you sent him off on his own. Alone. Hell, even if he were in fighting shape, with all the shit you’ve dragged after us that’s a fucking _death sentence_ , you _sputtering imbecile!”_

Dutch’s cheeks burned; he was acutely aware of the dead silence outside of his tent. The entire camp was no doubt listening in, relishing in the chance to see their leader taken down a peg. At least Hosea had the decency to close the canvas flap behind him. 

“ _Ran him off?_ I would _never_ — I told him to go off and calm down! I told him to go back to his tent— Hosea, he’s my son! I wouldn’t—“

Hosea was on him in a second, wrapping his hands into Dutch’s collar, clearly overflowing with vicious insults that never quite made it into the open air, before dropping him again with a weak shove.

“Your _son_ — what, pray tell, could your _son_ have done to deserve you beating on him? Honestly, no, don’t answer that. I wouldn’t give a shit if he gutshot the both of us _and_ our horses and left us for dead— you know damn well we don’t hit our boys, Dutch! _We don’t hit him_.”

“... like I said, things were heated.”

“I’m not fucking around, Van der Linde, I ought to throttle you!”— Hosea had never been one to react with his fists, but Dutch wasn’t keen on testing if that particular trait had lasted into his old age— “I don’t know what in the world possessed you to think that that boy had ever— ever— been anything but loyal to you! I don’t give a shit what kind of mood you’re in, he don’t deserve you screaming at him, and you damn well know it!” Hosea paced across the tent; barely two steps each way, but with near enough fervor to set fire to Dutch’s floor, “God damn you, Dutch. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but if anything happens to that boy I swear to God—“

“Calm down, Hosea. He’s a grown man— he can take care of himself. He just needed time to cool his head—“

“How clear were you?”

“What?”

Hosea scrubbed his hands across his face, entire frame tense with anger, “How clear were you that you weren’t mad at him? Did you tell him, _in those words_ , to just go calm down?”

“I— well, I—“

“You made it clear to him that, despite you beating on him, he was welcome back? That these _twenty years_ mean more to you than the past six months of hell you’ve put him through? That it isn’t _him_ you’re upset with?”

Those words drove into Dutch’s stomach like a sledgehammer and knocked the breath out of him, “We _both_ needed time to calm down, all right? Forgive me for not reading off the script you wrote. He is not a complete moron, Hosea. Soon as he’s ready to talk things through like an adult, he will be back. You just wait and see- our boy _always_ comes back.”

"Arthur would shoot himself if it could get him your approval, Dutch, you know that just as well as I do. Even _you_ aren't so thick-headed that you can't see that."

Hosea stopped his pacing. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, seemingly fighting off a looming migraine. Fatigue had worn Hosea raw. He stared at Dutch, looking for a moment like a startled deer. Dutch’s hands clenched into tight fists as that familiar, sticky guilt welled in his stomach.

Hosea’s face dropped. Disgust slowly creeped into his features.

His voice was quiet and low, “... You really aren’t going to go after him? _Again?_ ”

“You will see, friend,” Dutch gripped Hosea’s shoulders tight, hoping it was something akin to reassurance, “Arthur will be fine. He is always _fine_.”

“... I never should have left him with you.”

Hosea meant it. Dutch knew he did. It wasn't even an accusation, nor was it meant as an insult. It was simple fact, a candid thought Hosea had hardly meant to verbalize.

"Hosea—" it was a weak sound, one Dutch desperately wished hadn't come from him. 

"You're a damn fool, Dutch van der Linde."

Dutch ran cold at the words. Hosea turned and left, and slowly the world outside came alive again. Inside his tent though, Dutch felt time had fallen still. He curled in on himself, trying to still his breathing.

It’s fine.

It's fine.

It's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ FUCK HIM UP, HOSEA! ♡
> 
> I honestly debated if Hosea should just deck Dutch for what he's done. Its what I would do, but Hosea seems to be the type to control his anger a bit better. IDK, if y'all think Hosea should have beat the shit out of Dutch while the camp cheered him on, let me know in the comments. 
> 
> For real though, this chapter is the first of Dutch's POV. These will be scattered throughout; hopefully by the end you'll get a sense for the effect I'm going for. You guys are hella intuitive though, or maybe I'm a bad writer, so I wouldn't be surprised if you had it all figured out from chapter 1 lol ♡
> 
> Here's my wisdom for today: little things matter. They do. You all have no idea how much something as little as a kudo or a comment can absolutely make my day a thousand times better. For real, you all make me grin like a fool all day long. You have no idea how powerful you are! Little things make such a huge difference in ways you can never imagine! So give someone a compliment! Surprise someone with a small gesture! Do something for someone! Even if it's just yourself-- especially if it's yourself! You deserve every bit of happiness. That's a fact. 
> 
> I'll see you later, gators! ♡♡♡♡♡ (Give us a smile, crocodile!!)


	8. I. VIII

Shamefully, Hosea had acquiesced, after much reassurance from the folks around camp that Arthur probably just needed time away. Patience, he’d decided. Tomorrow he’d be angry, scared, and bloodthirsty. Tonight, he would be patient.

He stoked the fire, chest still aching from his shouting match with Dutch. The dark lines of his face were only pronounced in the flickering firelight, further aging him. Beside him, Lenny and Javier shared a quiet conversation. Charles carved at a piece of wood, seemingly without intention or purpose, letting the shavings burn in the flames. John simply stared at the roaring fire, exhaustion heavy on his face, Hosea's shoulder lightly pressed against his own. The air was stagnant and cool around them, stirred only by their breath. 

“Hey, Hosea?” Charles asked, his voice low and thoughtful. Hosea hummed in non-committal response, still eerily entranced by the fire.

“Do they—Arthur and Dutch—they do this a lot? Fighting, I mean. I’m not sure I’ve ever even heard Arthur yell at him before, much less come to blows… I always thought Arthur…. ”

Hosea pursed his lips into a thoughtful frown, and for a moment his features softened. All eyes, wordlessly, fell on him, waiting. The far-off look in his eye suggested that he was awash in a particularly unpleasant memory. He chuckled to brush away the anxiety sprouting inside him, but it was a humorless and cold sound.

They didn’t talk about those days; the early days— the first, formative years of the Van der Linde Gang. The memories of those days still haunted Hosea’s dreams and, judging by the whimpers of terror he heard from Arthur and Dutch on only the most still and soundless of nights, they weren’t immune to the nightmares either.

Nevertheless, Hosea drew in a short breath, forcing a showman's smile. The firelight swirled and swayed across his face, casting uncertain shadows.

“Guess you ain’t been around long enough to know, huh? Those two… Used to be they’d fight like rabid wolves just about every day. Screaming, cussin, threatenin’, usually ended with shit getting broken and someone storming off ’til I came to mediate. Couldn't hardly pull those two apart once they got at each other. Weren’t a good time for either of them. Hot-headed youth, as it were," Hosea's smile faded a little; the facade wearing down into something a bit more fond, "You gotta remember, Dutch and Arthur did a lot of their hardest growin’ together and it sure weren’t pretty. I mean, Arthur and _John_ used to fight like animals about every damn thing, even with more than _ten years_ between them.”

“Used to?” Charles mused, “Those two are _still_ at each other’s throats.”

John broke into an uneasy smile, like a crack left deep in the dirt after an earthquake split it in two; unwelcome and slightly dangerous, but a sight nonetheless. He pulled away from Hosea's side, if only slightly, to pull a foot up on the log he sat upon. “Sure did. The Arthur you been talkin’ with these last few months? That ain’t the Arthur he used to be. Hell, that ain’t the Arthur I grew up with in the least. I hear he ran even hotter as a kid, which, let me tell you: having seen what his temper _used_ to be when _I_ was comin' up, I ain’t sure I can imagine him being any angrier…”

“’S true,” Hosea leaned back, his smile only widening, “That kid was damn near feral. Took us close to a month to get him to tell us his name, much less talk to us, while John here took a week at most to be glued to our sides. Point is, as much as we say it’s the ‘curious couple and their unruly son’, it’s a little more like ‘an exhausted father and his bickering boys’. Dutch was only a bit older than young Lenny here when we picked Arthur up. Early twenties or so, if I'm remembering right. There's five, maybe six years between him and Arthur. You’ve all seen Dutch’s temper, now imagine him as a hotheaded young man trying to raise a feral boy.”

Lenny chuckled, dry and humorless, “Hard to imagine either of them young.”

“Harder still to imagine them beating on each other,” Charles added with a frown. He dug his thumb against the flat edge of his knife. 

“Now, see… That’s the thing…” Hosea cast his gaze back into the fire, his fingernails dug into his palms as though it make make him forget the memories that wormed their way up. He swallowed back against the sickly feeling in his throat, “That’s… I think that would be the second time Dutch has ever laid hands on him like that. And that first time was something awful.”

“What do you mean?”

They looked between John and Hosea, desperate for answers neither wanted to give, as though something foul laid dormant in those words. After a beat of silence, John chimed in, watching Hosea’s face twist into something particularly unpleasant.

“By the time I came 'round, they didn't fight quite so much. Those two much preferred screamin' to hittin'. Arthur would throw me around some, stick me up in trees or wrestle me into the dirt, but Dutch? They wouldn't touch each other. Dutch and Hosea—hell, even Grimshaw—they made a point not to hit Arthur. Here I got swatted all the time, while Arthur never got nothin.”

A little life returned to Hosea's face.

“You got _swatted_ cause you wouldn’t stop touching things you weren’t supposed to and you were bound to get hurt. This fool,” Hosea tousled John’s hair fondly, yanking him closer by his shoulder, “Once grabbed a _copperhead_. There he was, hootin’ and hollerin’, running around the camp in circles crying, _‘what do I do, what do I do?’_ , little snake in his hands angry as anything. Ended up dropping the damn thing right in the middle of camp. Lucky for us, Arthur’s horse at the time was an ornery bastard, stomped the damn thing flat 'fore anyone got bit. And lucky for John, Grimshaw wasn't there with her spoon.”

A round of chuckles, as John hid his burning cheeks. He remembered that damn wooden spoon all too well— Grimshaw kept it in a goddamn holster on her hip. The woman was quick on the draw with that bastard, often knocking it across his knuckles before he realized she was there. 

“Arthur, on the other hand… this isn’t my story to tell, so don't let him know I been tellin tales, but Arthur’s daddy was a real piece of work. Bastard got what was coming to him, but it was still a far cry from what he deserved. ‘Course, at the time we didn’t know a thing about it, and what we did know we had to piece together ourselves. He never did go into detail, ‘cept for once, when he was drunk. Point is… Dutch hit him _once_ , and Arthur… well, what matters is that we had a hell of a time getting him back again afterwards. Scared the shit out of both of us, and we vowed never to let anyone lay a hand on that boy again.”

Charles held his face stiff, no trace of the brewing thoughts beneath. Lenny seemed to have sunken into himself, and Javier wrung his hands nervously, suddenly wishing he'd brought his guitar to fiddle with. John simply stared into the fire, watching it crackle and spark. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, but the heaviness in Hosea's voice still twisted his stomach.

“Arthur’s pa was a real piece of shit, and that’s coming from me, a piece of shit dad with my own piece of shit dad,” John mumbled, mouth curling into a disgusted sneer, “Arthur’s was something else. Somethin’ like that don’t just… You don’t just live through it and and get out okay. For Dutch to... To do what he did without thinking...”

The men sat in that lasting quiet for as long as they could muster, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the far-off song of crickets. The sky rolled overhead, thick with clouds, as if it knew there was a somber gathering just beneath.

“Do you think he’s comin’ back?” Lenny asked, voice quiet and meek— hardly the joyful chortle he was known for. He face creased with concern.

Hosea balled his hands together.

“I don’t know. I… I have no idea where he’s gone off to, or what he'll be like, but we have to find him,” Hosea worked his jaw, trying to hide the tremble of his lower lip, “Even if it’s just to say our goodbyes, and I don’t quite blame him if it is. I just can’t rest knowing he’s out there, somewhere, hurting because of Dutch’s stupid mistake. It ain’t right for that boy to suffer any more than he already has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Campfire chats ♡  
> This is kind of a filler/exposition chapter, less plot to drive and more for pacing and a taste of backstory (as if the stakes weren't high enough lol).
> 
> I absolutely love the campfire as a place where folks get to be a little vulnerable and open with each other, and nothing bad is going to happen. There's a handful of campfire chapters that are spread out throughout the rest of the fic (next one isn’t for a good few chapters), so let me know if y’all find this obnoxious or w/e. I like the break it provides; it’s cozy and easy, lets people breathe a little bit. But hey, you guys aren’t here for breathing, so if anyone hates it let me know and I'll mark the next ones so you can skip em. ♡
> 
> FR though, did y’all know Dutch and Arthur were so close in age?? Because I didn’t! Everything’s approximate, but I didn’t make that up, they really are only a few years apart. I thought that was hella weird, especially given their dynamic, which makes it seem like Dutch is so much older. 
> 
> ALSO! I changed my username back to Darling_Jack (anyone who caught my first fic early enough would know I’ve done this like four or five times…). Don’t be alarmed, it’s still me! I know it’s probably not best practice to change my name mid-fic, but I’ve been bouncing around between usernames because I can never just be happy… It's not super important and it's literally the only thing that's changed. I still over-use the hearts (I can't help it, I love all of you so much! ♡♡♡), I'm still too angsty for my own good, and I still talk too long in the notes. 
> 
> I'll see you all on Sunday! ♡♡♡♡♡ Be well, be well, be well!!


	9. I. IX

_“DAMN IT!”_ Arthur roared, hurling the brush he’d found in Odessa’s saddlebags towards the lake, “ _God fucking damn it!_ ”

The first few days with Hamish —at least, those Arthur was completely awake for— were terrifying, brimming with uncertainty and unspoken words, like walking on eggshells, but the eggshells were made of razor sharp glass, and he was carefully scattering them by hand. His arm ached something fierce, constantly sore like it hadn’t been in a week or two, and Arthur probably should have guessed his temper would have reached its breaking point sooner or later.

On the third day they returned from the trapper around noon, having sold a pile of pelts and skins that Hamish had collected. All morning, Hamish had cast him worried glances— knitted looks of concern that Arthur absolutely withered beneath.

He’d gone outside to work on Odessa and Buell, hoping to work towards repaying Hamish for his kindness and hospitality. Escaping Hamish’s worried gaze was simply a bonus. He fed each of the dutch warmbloods a peppermint, and that is just about as far as he got.

Immediately following his outburst, Arthur welled with embarrassment, cheeks going bright red.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Hamish leaned against the porch, watching in amusement.

“ _’S fine!_ ” Arthur grumbled, trying to tamp down the rising anger; Hamish didn’t deserve this. The cool breeze of O'Creagh's run curled through his bones, only further reminding him of how how his face had grown, “ _Fuckin’ dandy_.”

“That brush you threw might disagree. Arm bothering you today?” When Arthur didn’t respond, Hamish continued as though he hadn't asked a question at all, “Leg’s got me sore, too. Think a storm’s coming.”

Arthur dug his fingertips into his busted arm, hardly realizing how hard he gripped his flesh until Hamish's calloused hand laid atop his own. Hamish peeled Arthur's fingers away with a great deal of care and affection. Arthur yanked away from the touch.

Something in Hamish softened underneath the far-off look in his eye, “Sure I don’t need to remind you, but you _can_ talk to me, Arthur. I ain’t one to judge and uh.. well, who knows better ‘bout losing a limb than me?”

“I ain’t lost it yet," Arthur snapped, baring his teeth. 

“No, course not… but it sure _feels_ lost, don’t it?”

Arthur laughed in response, fighting against the tears burning his eyes. He sat against the wall of the house, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hamish rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, but stared off into the mountains beyond his little homestead.

“Guess I can’t brush a horse ’til it's better, need a second hand to keep ‘em steady,” Arthur offered another weak chuckle, “Who’d’ve thought? Can’t brush a horse.”

In the next moment, the smile was gone from his face and something inside him snapped in two. Hamish's features twitched into a frown, but he didn't otherwise react.

“Can’t hunt, can’t shoot a gun, can’t win a fight, _can’t take care of my damn family!_ This fucking arm— God damn it to hell!”

Arthur's fingernails again dug into the fabric of his sling hard enough to hurt, and again Hamish eased his grip wordlessly. Hamish sighed, rubbing small circles onto Arthur’s shoulder as the younger tried to steady his breathing. Arthur’s shoulders heaved under his touch. That's all there was— for a moment, it was just them. Arthur choked on his tears, and Hamish was there, steady as stone, completely unbothered by Arthur's outburst. O'Creagh's run had otherwise fallen silent, even the animals offering Arthur some shred of dignity. 

‘“m sorry, Hamish…” Arthur wiped at his eyes, voice frail, “I didn’t mean to… to yell like that.”

Hamish hummed, offering a troublemaking grin, “Oh, a little yelling is good for you.”

“I— I shouldn’t be out there kicking up a tantrum like a damn child.”

“Arthur,” Hamish lowered his voice, speaking softly, though good-natured and light, “If you feel up for talking, then let's talk. Or, we can stay out here, pitch a fit, break some things, and call it a day. Up to you.”

When Arthur said nothing, opting to bury his face into his knees, Hamish was more than happy to fill the silence, “Let me tell you, when I got my leg blown off, boy, did I carry on.”

“… Did you now?”

“Sure did. Hollered all damn day and night, screamed at just about anyone who looked my way, and when I wasn’t yellin’, I was crying. Threw a bedpan at a nurse when she asked how I was. I got so mad over it, felt like there weren’t no point in doing anything if I didn’t have— if i didn’t have a leg to do it with. ”

Arthur nodded, staring out at the surface of the lake, broken by the rocky islands and bobbing fish. Despite the natural heat of summer and the sun just over head, the air was cool and crisp, filling his lungs and washing out some of the panic that had stuck there. Hamish followed Arthur’s gaze, but sat a little closer, allowing their shoulders to touch.

“Took me a long while to realize that a leg ain’t all of you. Your arm— that ain’t all of you. They ain’t the bits that matter, even though they sure do feel like it. It weren’t worth losing all of me over a damn leg, and you can be sure I ain’t about to let you lose all of you over an arm.”

Arthur swallowed back the rising bile in his throat. He took a deep breath, not daring to trust himself to speak.

“… but it ain’t just the arm, is it?”

Arthur's surprised gaze fell onto Hamish, mouth slightly agape as he processed those words. Something bitter and sad pulled over his face, but he quieted it just as quickly as it had appeared, choosing instead to glare at the dirt around his feet.

“... I don’t get it,” Arthur grit his teeth hard, trying to ignore the hitch in his breath, “Ain’t like I’m not on my own more often than not anyways… I-I spend most of my damn time away from ‘em— days or weeks at a time— and I been on my own before and I never—I don't _need_ them, so why am I—“

Hamish hummed, wrapping an arm around Arthur's ribs, careful not to brush against the nasty bruises that still remained from Arthur's unsightly brawl in Valentine. A slight frown pulled over his face, but Arthur couldn’t see it.

“Long time ago, before the war, I lived like that. Had— had a place east of here, right on the coast, beautiful, big fish right outside my door, but I barely ever saw it. I spent my time out exploring, hunting whatever I could find and sleeping under the stars. Felt like I had everything in the world at my fingertips, didn’t need nothing else. I had everything. Then one day I come back to find that little house had burnt up while I was away. Messed me up a while, even though I maybe only slept there once every few months, ‘cause I always figured… I always figured it’d be there when I needed it. Sure, I didn't need the place, but it was nice to have.”

“Hit the nail on the head there, Hamish,” Arthur chuckled, humorless but warm.

“Now see— Only way to start feeling better ‘bout losing somethin’ is to find somethin’ new. So you lost the life you had, and it hurts, but don’t mean you can’t make a new life that's just as good. Let yourself hurt awhile, then go do the things you always wanted to do, or don’t and find new things you ain’t never thought of. Time moves on, it all hurts less. Worked fine for me. And… and some things are better left behind.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, anxiety rising in his chest despite the hiccups of laughter that bubbled up inside him, “I ain’t… I ain’t even sure what something like that would look like.”

“So you stay here until you do,” Hamish mused, finally glancing over at Arthur. Thoughtlessly, he wiped his sleeve over Arthur's damp cheek, “Even if you ain’t _staying_ here, consider this place yours until you don’t need it no more, however long that looks like. If you wanna stay long, stay long. If you wanna leave, leave. Listen to your stomach, boy, you got good guts in there. Ain’t never steered you wrong before.”

“Hamish-“ Arthur’s eyes widened, breathless, “I- I can’t ask you—“

“You ain’t asking, and neither am I. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk with ‘sides Buell. Someone to help with chores, go fishin’… Some fresh blood to liven this place up. You’re still welcome to come and go as you please, I ain’t about to stop you, but I think it’ll do both of us some good.”

Tears burned in Arthur’s eyes.

“Thanks, Hamish.”

Hamish ruffled his hair, fondly if a bit rough, just like Dutch used to.

“No trouble, kid. Now then— Lets try it again,” Hamish pushed himself to his feet, cracking his joints as he waded into the lake, searching for Arthur’s brush, a look of amused determination on his face.

“You… ain’t mad?”

“Why the hell would I be mad? You know how long it took me to learn how to walk again when I lost my leg? Four and a half years, and I was stubborn as a mule. Take your time, horses ain’t going nowhere and it needs to be done. Don’t matter if it’s done in an hour or a day.”

-:-

That night, as they sipped brandy in companionable silence and Arthur, for the first time in days, finally allowed himself to relax. After basking in that moment, that silence, for a minute, Arthur drew in a deep breath and spoke.

“Hamish, I got something to tell you.”

The graveness in his voice, running quick with an undercurrent of fear, set Hamish on edge. All he did to show his nervousness, though, was to sit up a little straighter and cast a sidelong glance at Arthur. He studied the younger man’s face for a time before relaxing back into his chair.

“Shoot, kiddo.”

“I’m an outlaw. A wanted man. I-I figured… I figured you ought to know, ‘fore I get you into trouble—”

Hamish let out a heavy breath, laughing in relief, “Goddamn, here I was worried you was gonna tell me you was leaving already— had me spooked a moment. Thought I gave a whole speech for nothing.”

“Wha— you ain’t… I don’t know, upset? Gonna call the law on me? Kick me out?”

“Arthur, do you think I’m stupid? I seen the posters, hell, I seen your damn guns. Ain’t no one carry guns as nicely kept as those unless they use ‘em. Way I figure, the law can say all it wants who’s a citizen and who’s an outlaw, but they can’t decide who’s a decent feller. Between my keen sense for good folk, and Buell’s nose for trouble, you ain’t fooled no one, Arthur Morgan. ‘Course, I do know that you got a whole lot of stories you been holding back. I figure you owe me.”

Arthur smiled slightly, playing with the glass of liquor between his fingers. 

“I ran with folks,” he admitted after a second, “Lots of em, since I was a boy. I had this— this mentor. He practically raised me. When I busted my arm, he didn’t take it too well. We was barely surviving as is, and if I couldn’t pull my weight there weren’t no point in me staying. He knew that, I knew it, but he…” Arthur took a long draw of his drink, “We got in a fight, and I don’t rightly know why but I guess… Guess I was angrier than I thought. Guess _he_ was angrier than I thought and it got me thinking, I mean I guess I’d been thinking for a while— but it got me thinking that maybe he’s right. I ain’t worth killing the rest of em. So I left, I figured it's best if I ain’t a burden any longer than I ought to be. I’m sure he’d’ve let me stay a while longer, but how could I? Not when I’m a damn leech and not... not after he... it... He, uh, threatened to ‘do to me what he did to my daddy’, and I guess I knew he would, sooner or later.”

“What’d he… do?” Hamish asked, hating the way Arthur’s breath caught ever so slightly despite the confident facade the man wore.

“Dutch— my mentor— killed him.“

Hamish frowned, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder tight, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Ah, don’t be sorry. My father was an awful man,” Arthur said after a moment of silence, “Killed my mama, I think, and beat the absolute shit out of me for years. I don’t remember too much about it, seeing as he shook my brains so bad...”

They fell into a cold silence, completely unlike the one Arthur had broken. Bitter. Empty. Arthur gripped his glass. Though his lips were curled into a frown, there was something warmer in his eyes; something nearly fond in the way he spoke.

“I was on my own, for a while after. Angry, and alone. Barely 11 at the time. Joined up with Dutch a few years after. This is his hat, y’know. My pa’s,” Arthur played with the rope around his hat, twisting it between his fingers almost affectionately, “He was wearing it when he died.” Arthur’s fingers grazed over a bullet hole, pausing for a moment. Hamish felt sick to his stomach. “Kept it as a reminder of what the worst of men look like. After a while though, I suppose it just became a hat.”

“Did, uh.. Did he ever… tell you why he did what he did? Ever apologize?”

“Ha— I ain’t sure Dutch has ever apologized for a damn thing his whole life. We uh… We talked about it, once, but that’s it. It ain’t like I blamed him for it. ‘Least, not after a while. If it weren’t Dutch, it would have been someone else. But when he told me he’d do the same to me, I realized he really did mean it. I realized that, y’know, maybe I _ain’t_ no better than my daddy, and I can’t rightly subject them to that.”

Beneath the calm on his face, Hamish boiled with anger. His blood ran thick with rage. He kept it to himself, though, when he saw the tiny, reverent smile that brightened Arthur’s features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the long-awaited answer to the coyote analogy from a few chapters ago! Or, more accurately, the scene I abandoned the coyote analogy for... Who could have guessed it’d be _another_ analogy? ♡
> 
> Anyways, Hamish was trying to express to Arthur that when a coyote gets stuck in a trap, it chews its own foot off, which hurts, but it's much better than staying stuck in the trap. However, once free, the coyote will miss the foot it left behind; as the stump heals, it hurts, and it might wish it had just stayed in the trap because then it might not hurt so much now. But we all know that staying in that trap was worse. 
> 
> What Hamish means is that there are things Arthur needs to let go of: the gang, his arm, his father… He’s stuck in this awful, dark place, and refuses to let himself out. He’s left as this scared, hurt animal, stuck in a trap with seemingly no way out, biting and snapping at everyone who gets close because there's no way to know if they’re there to hurt or help.  
> Arthur’s arm in and of itself is representative of a lot of key issues addressed in this fic. I’ll leave it to you guys to pick out exactly what those things are! Y'all consistently surprise me with what you pick up on. I'm here leaving breadcrumbs and you lovely folk are reconstructing the damn loaf. I'm SO here for it!!! Keep your theories coming, they will nourish me in the coming winter. I'd kill to talk theories with you all (as if I don't already have the next 20 chapters meticulously planned out...)
> 
> The next chapter is very short, so to make up for that I’m going to deviate a little from the usual posting schedule and release it on Tuesday, which means three chapters this week instead of two. ♡♡♡
> 
> ♡ Be good, kiddos! I’ll see you all on Tuesday! ♡


	10. I. X

Life with Hamish felt wrong. Happy, in a way Arthur could never deserve. After their talk, after Arthur had managed to let loose everything that had built inside of him, things were better. Each morning, they shared a cup of coffee before carrying on with their days. Hamish never once questioned what Arthur got up to, which in itself was jarring; Arthur was used to keeping an excuse or explanation at the ready, just in case Grimshaw got nosy or Dutch irritated. Arthur would spend his time doing chores where he could, at first. Soon, though, he realized that nobody was going to die if he didn’t. Hamish didn’t much mind if the floor was swept proper or if it took two days to brush out Buell. Arthur spend his free time, a strange concept, staring out at the lake or exploring the mountains nearby.

He hadn’t brought his journal with him; it was too damaged to be of any use any more. He hadn’t even had time to buy a new one, not that he had the spare cash lying around to do so. But, oh, the things he would’ve written. He wished he could draw Hamish’s face, crinkled into a smile every time Arthur feigned overdramatic upset at minor inconveniences. He wished he could make a note each time he screwed something up, as he was apt to do, and each time Hamish responded with patience and warmth, yet strangely not pity or shame. There was no end-of-the-world, no looming threat, no screaming matches, and no life-or-death decisions.

Life with Hamish was steady in a way Arthur hadn’t known in a very long time

In the evenings, they’d sit on the porch with their dinner perched in their laps. Arthur let loose all the stories he’d never been able to tell anyone; stories of the gang, stories of his travels, stories of his family… everything. Hamish matched each of Arthur’s tales with one of his own, never once balking at the indecent life Arthur had lived.

“So then, Dutch and I are walking through the market, couldn’t be more than a week later,” Arthur’s face was cracked into a huge, beaming grin, as he suppressed the laughter in his chest, “And here, I’m all puffed up, ‘cause he’s _still_ going on and on about them fish. That’s when I spot him,”

“No!” Hamish howled, red in the face from laughing so hard.

“Yes! _That same fishmonger!_ And he’s lookin’ at me dead in the eyes, and I lock eyes with him, and I’m just praying, just staring _daggers_ at the man, hoping he won’t say nothin, but goddamn if he doesn’t call out _“Hey kid! You enjoy those bass?”_ ”

Hamish doubled over, cackling, slapping his hand against his thigh, “You gotta be kidding me!”

“And ‘course— 'course I go beet red, I’m trying to play it off, and Dutch—“ he catches his breath, laughing too hard for his own good, “Dutch is just staring at me with this look on his face like it’s the funniest shit he ever seen. He grab me around the neck and calls back _‘he sure did!’_ and gets this smile, must’ve been a mile wide. Lord, he told that story a dozen goddamned times. Never did let me live it down.”

“Jesus, kid. Can’t say I wouldn't'a done the same, but why the _hell_ would you go back to the same market?”

“I was drunk off my ass the first time! How was I supposed to know?”

“My god, you were some kind of little shit,” Hamish wiped a tear from his eye, cheeks bright red from laughter.

“That I was. I have no idea how folks put up with me.”

A thoughtful hush settled across O’Creagh’s run, filled only by chirping crickets. Hamish cast him a sideways look, a mischievous smile fading into to something a little more serious.

“You mad at him?” he asked after a moment.

“At Dutch? Naw, I could never be mad at him, not really. He’s… I don’t know how to explain it but… for as much shit as I give him, and as much as he gives me, I’d follow him into hell. I damn near _did_. I… got my arm messed up working a job for him. Nearly died for it, too. Told him it weren’t right, but I never could resist that man— Not when it mattered at least.”

“You blame him, then? For your arm?”

“You blame your commander for your leg?”

“Hell _yes_ I do.”  
  
Arthur laughed gently, a sorrowful sound, a far cry from the joyous chortles that had left him breathless only moments before. “No, no. I don’t blame him. Like I said, I shoulda been more careful. He— Dutch does his best. He always does. He might’ve changed a lot these past few years, but I can’t hardly blame him. Hell, I changed too. He’s got so much to shoulder, I just… I wish things ain’t gone the way they did. Way I figure, soon as the pair of us stop actin’ insane, maybe I’ll try to set things right. Set things better, at least— if not with Dutch, then with the other folks. And if that ain’t possible, I guess that’s okay too. But I gotta at least try. He raised me, y’know. Weren’t but a kid himself and he took me in, turned me from an animal into a human being. For a long while, he was all I had. Can’t just let things sit like this.”

“You sure do love him, don’t you?”

“... Something like that.”

Arthur basked in the glow of that moment, the warmth settling between them, as Hamish launched into a story about how he once staged an intricate bear attack so he could dig through the rations and take the best for himself, with the help of a beloved troublemaking compatriot whose name he couldn’t quite remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is kind of short, but I figured I owed you all a breather, since last chapter was pretty jam-packed and the next chapter is… something. This is mostly in here for pacing, and I suppose it's a little fluffy ♡  
> I usually pack my chapters full of peanuts (and by peanuts, I mean little itty bitty bits foreshadowing or subtle analogies y'know, little things that'll be fun for folks to catch if they read through a second time). This one has them too but they're a bit less subtle than I usually aim for, so sorry if it seemed a bit clunky lol 
> 
> Might as well take the chance to catch up with y’all. How are you guys doing? Let's get to know each other ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
> Aww, we could also use this chapter as like a cute lil Q&A! I think everything so far has been pretty straightforward, but hey: any questions you have, throw them my way. I’m not sure what the average age is on AO3 so for all I know I could be decades younger than y'all, but I can offer pretty sound life advice too… 
> 
> My Q for YOU all to A is: what's your favorite horse in the game (gang horses included!) and why? 
> 
> Stay golden! I’ll see you Thursday ♡


	11. I. XI

Days burned by quickly. By the fifth day with no sign of Arthur, Dutch began to feel, for the first time in a long while, the creeping fingers of doubt.

Not doubt of himself— he felt that all too frequently— but doubt of Arthur. He’d not truly doubted Arthur in nearly all of those twenty-odd years they’d run together. Sure, when Arthur was nothing but a feral, angry child seemingly always plotting to stab him in his sleep and run off, there was cause for doubt. When he brought Arthur on his first job and the boy ran off with the score, there was cause for doubt, at least until he returned having escaped the clutches of the local law with every cent they’d taken and then some, having lifted a few dollars from travelers on his way back.

To memory, the last time he’d truly, wholly doubted Arthur was when Eliza and Isaac died. He doubted Arthur would ever emerge from the drunken tailspin he’d fallen into; doubted he would claw his way back from the edges of grief in any meaningful way. Dutch was never quite sure he had, but at the very least he stopped spending every waking hour sobbing into the bottom of a bottle.

And it wasn’t as though Arthur had never been gone so long before— he had. For a good year, he was left wrapping up loose ends two states over from the rest of the group, which meant leaving for up to three months at a time, returning for maybe a week between trips. Hell, even as of late it wasn’t unusual for the man to set out on his own for two-week-long trips to do God knows what. Arthur never said and Dutch never asked because without fail he’d return laden with cash, meat, and leads— the holy trinity, as far as Dutch was concerned. These days, he was away from camp more often than not. 

The only difference is that Arthur usually told someone how long he was planning to leave for and when he should be expected to return. The _one_ time Arthur had failed to return the day he was expected, Charles quietly packed his things and set out after him without a word to or from Dutch- and none was needed. The pair returned within the day. Arthur, having had lost track of himself, was fully prepared for a loud, lengthy lecture from Hosea and Grimshaw about how worried they both were. He didn’t receive more than a light chiding from the latter and a clap on the back from the former. Dutch didn’t much mind what Arthur got up to so long as he was there when he was needed and returned with the spoils of whatever nonsense he got into.

He could feel the bitter chill of uncertainty weigh in his lungs like iron. As his fear, his concern for Arthur’s wellbeing, grew, with it sprouted a dry, thorny anger.

Soon his assurances, his repeated proclamations that Arthur _just needed time_ , sounded just as hollow as they were to begin with. Soon, those same words of reassurance turned to admonishments.

 _“Fuck him_ ,” Dutch roared, the moment anyone so much as whispered Arthur’s name, “He wants to go, he wants to _abandon_ the only family he’ll ever have, _let him_! Ain’t my fault if he wants to go get himself killed. This ain’t a prison, folks, and if anyone wants to join him they’re more than welcome!”

But even wrath boils down sooner or later, his frustration and fear now a potent reduction always just beneath the surface, ready to erupt.

Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose, staving off the migraine that he felt budding there. Things could not be worse.

He couldn’t even write a goddamned _speech_ without his mind filling with curdled thoughts of failure and deceit. _Faith,_ he demanded, he needed their faith. He needed their faith because he had none of his own. They looked to him for hope, for guidance; for a steady hand at the helm, trusted to keep them off the rocks. He couldn’t even do that. Again and again, he failed them.

Hosea had told him, after all. Hosea told him plenty. The man had cried on his shoulder, quietly sobbing about Arthur nearly every night while Arthur lay unconscious not ten feet away for a _month._ About his fever, about the infection that had settled into his skin, about the pathetic whimpers he heard, begging phantoms to _'stop, please, stop'_.

About his arm, how Arthur may never use it again.

But Hosea didn’t _have_ to tell him anything. He heard Arthur’s delirious screams, his fevered cries as he called out Dutch’s name, warning of traps that never sprung because Dutch was too stupid to fall into them. He refused to go, refused to allow himself to see his son because of what he knew he’d see. The last time the O’Drisolls had take something from him so violently, she lived _just_ long enough to give Dutch hope that she might. To think that their second attempt would only succeed because he couldn’t control his own goddamned temper made him sick to his stomach.

Because some awful part of him wanted to break things before they got broken. Because he couldn’t bear to see Arthur so… so wrong. So defeated, and weak, and everything Arthur never would have wanted to be. It was an act of dignity. That's all; preserving his dignity. Nothing to do with Dutch’s own weakness.

Not that he would ever admit to any of this; maybe some small piece of him recognized that all of this self hatred was merely an excuse— performative, for an audience of one.

Dutch quietly approached the low-burning campfire late on the night of the seventh day since Arthur left. Not that Dutch had been obsessively keeping track, preferring to count the seconds rather than eat, or to sit up on watch all night in case he came back instead of sleeping. He’d been working— that’s _all_ — _not_ trying to keep his thoughts away from Arthur. The camp was sparse these days; most folks were so busy they, too, were away from camp more often than not, and each departure felt like a lead ball in Dutch’s stomach because he feared they, too, might not return. And why should they— Dutch couldn’t protect his son, how could he protect them?

He hadn’t spoken to Hosea. Hosea couldn't bear to look in his direction. He stayed in camp though, and Dutch was quietly thankful; if Hosea left, he'd surely fall apart.

His chest squeezed, refusing to draw in air. His heart thundered in his chest.

“I—“ Dutch began, startling them all. Each and every one of them watched, eyes wide like saucers. They waited, anticipated, expected, and Dutch could feel the weight of their stares upon him— the weight of their _faith_.

“We have to find him,” Dutch concluded dumbly, hating how weak his own voice sounded. How disused and laden with emotion. He didn’t know quite which emotion it was, but it was heavy and unpleasant.

By the next morning, Dutch was elbow deep in planning. Hosea sat dutifully by his side as the pair discussed their next steps, but still couldn't suffer to meet his gaze. Hell, Hosea staunchly refused to look in Dutch's direction, even when sitting barely a foot away.

Dutch paced, bordering on manic, but nobody said a word about it.

Folks gathered around, stopping by as they went about their morning and chiming in with helpful knowledge whenever they could. Some lingered, others were unable to tolerate the painfully cold atmosphere. John and Charles sat at the table with Hosea, content to watch as Dutch unravelled. After minutes of listening to him ramble with seemingly no substance behind his words, John clutched his coffee mug tight, and shared a glance with Charles.

“Dutch, I—“ John interrupted, though he was startled by the sheer intensity behind Dutch’s glare despite the early hour, “Charles and I, we’ve _been_ looking...”

Dutch pulled himself from his thoughts, each one thoroughly derailed, and furrowed his brows as if trying to decipher what John had said. On the one hand, John was clearly ahead of the curve here and those few days would prove invaluable. On the other, such blatant insubordination was intolerable.

“I thought I told you to leave it—“

“Yeah, well, I thought different,” John snapped with the very same look of disgust that Hosea had worn this past week.

“I told them to go, Dutch,” Hosea added, cold as ice, “ _Someone_ had to.”

They were right. Dutch knew they were right. He snapped his mouth closed like a trap, settling back into his rhythmic pacing. 

“ _Point is,_ last we saw of him was about a few days after he left. Charles tracked him up to Valentine, we caught his trail in the saloon and— ”

“And you didn’t think to tell me any of this?” Dutch slammed his palms down on the table, snarling at John not unlike a rabid dog. 

_“I’m tellin you now, ain’t I?”_

" _You_ —" As Dutch set to lunge forwards, Hosea laid a calming hand on his shoulder which in and of itself was startling. Dutch floundered, allowing himself to be pulled into a seat by that steady hand.

“We can’t find him,” Charles stepped in, certain that John would start a fight if allowed to continue, “We followed him to Valentine but the trail goes completely cold. I mean, he’s usually hard to track down but never like this. All we know is he got in a fight, busted up Smithfield’s, and left.”

“With a _man_ ,” John added, sneering at Dutch as he did. Dutch’s face fell blank, and even Hosea's breath hitched.

Charles pushed John back gently as he clarified, “An old, one-legged man who picked him up off the street and took him along. No one seemed to know who he was, though, but they figured Arthur knew him. Sounded like Arthur was doing okay; at the very least, he didn't put up a fight.”

Dutch balked, eyes wide, mind suddenly awash in a thousand questions and answers. Hosea shared a surprised look with Dutch, absolutely speechless.They both knew Arthur had a nasty habit of following strangers, but for someone to pull him out of a fight? Hell, even _Dutch_ had trouble reining Arthur in sometimes. Hosea squeezed Dutch's hand tight, clearly following a similar train of thought. 

“Some man just… just _took_ him? Just walked in, out of nowhere, and… _took_ Arthur?" 

“ _Hobbled_ , probably,” John muttered, earning a sharp elbow from Charles, “... Since he had only the one leg.”

“According to the stablehands, Arthur went with him without issue; even looked happy to see him,” Charles cut in, “They seemed close. We ain’t got any ideas who he is though, and nobody in town knew.”

“Okay,” Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose tight, heart thundering in his chest, “Okay. Here’s what we do—“

Dutch quickly set all available hands to work, not that there were many; he sent Sean and Lenny to Valentine, thinking maybe a new set of eyes might glean something more than ‘Arthur got in a fight and then got kidnapped’. The rest of them, as could be spared, set off looking for anyone who might know Arthur: friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, doctors, anyone Arthur might have gone to see regularly, hoping he mentioned an old man to at least _one_ of them. Dutch and Hosea stayed behind, continuing their brainstorming in the privacy of their Dutch’s quarters, plotting out every damn thing they knew about their boy, praying they might connect some dots that would tell them where he went.

And, with hardly anyone around to see, Micah scoured Arthur’s tent.

As far as Micah was concerned, things were better off left alone. Even with two arms, Arthur was hardly worth the effort it took to keep him around. He was too needy, always seeking _daddy Dutch’s_ praise. Now, a cowardly half-man who ran away from the gang? As far Micah was concerned, the man may as well be dead. The law would pick him up soon anyways, if he weren’t rotting in a ditch already with a bullet in his head and a gun in his hand. With him out of the way, Dutch might actually focus on more important matters, like retrieving the _goddamned Blackwater money._

Besides, who _knows_ what Arthur might have discussed with those O’Driscolls?

To that end, Micah searched for even the slightest hint of where the man might have gone. Not to retrieve him for some big, weepy homecoming, but to make sure that nobody else could.

And that’s when he found it.

Arthur had left plenty of shit behind. Most of it was decidedly worthless, besides some guns and a few pairs of boots.

But he also left his journal, kept in a lockbox beneath his cot. Hardly a lockbox, really, since Micah had no trouble breaking the lock and forcing the lid open.

It was trashed; swollen with liquid, pages stuck together irreparably, but not unusable. Not _unreadable_. Micah managed to pry a few pages apart, vibrating in excitement and vile anticipation.

The book was about half-full, a smattering of drawings and sappy words that honestly turned his stomach. Nevertheless, Micah peeled each page from the next; some words were torn away in the process, left as illegible flakes stuck fast to the next page, but for the most part, he got along fine. The pages spoke of strangers, of jobs Arthur took and things he found, of people he met and people who died. He reminisced and waxed poetic far too much for Micah’s taste— he should have guessed Arthur was secretly a pussy.

What’s more, he didn’t have to go far to find exactly what he was looking for.

 _‘Met a one-legged man’,_ Arthur had written, _‘was a veteran, interesting fella. Said to come by his cabin on the other side of O’Creagh’s Run. Maybe I will.’_

Beside the entry, predictably enough, a crude sketch of a one-legged man looking rather annoyed. Micah smiled wide as he tore the page out and shoved it into his pocket. He continued flipping through the rest of the pages, ripping and tearing as needed, hoping to find something else, ideally something damning. Drawings, maps, goddamned soliloquies it seemed, each turn of the page furthering his disgust until—

Micah’s face cracked wide with a menacing grin as he pored over the words Arthur had written, a sick sense of curiosity filling him. He ripped out that page, too, finding only more of the same filth lurking behind it. Slowly, carefully, a plan formed in his mind.

“Oh ho ho, _Morgan_ ,” he hissed, barely able to contain his excitement as he sifted through the pages he could unclump, “ _You naughty boy_.”

He forced his face into the closest approximation of sorrow and worry that he could manage— not unlike a cancerous barn cat caught in a rainstorm— and damn near danced into Dutch’s tent, warped journal in hand. Hosea and Dutch seemed to be lost in a map— had be been paying attention, Micah may have recognized it as the map Arthur kept tacked to the side of his wagon, the one he plotted his various comings and goings on— but the pair looked up from their work nevertheless, undeniably hopeful that someone, anyone, had found something.

“Sorry to interrupt, boss,” he lied, “But I uh… I figured someone ought to look through his personal effects. See if he left a note and all— he uh, Morgan seems to have left his _journal_ behind.“

Hosea’s eyes widened. He puffed up in rage, bellowing, “ _You read his goddamned journal?_ You _bastard_ —“

“Calm down, old timer,” Micah huffed with an overdramatic roll of his eyes, “Dutch _said_ to do everything we could to find him, I thought this might be one of our best chances. I didn’t want to get anyones hopes up by mentioning it. Anyways, Dutch— I think you’re going to want to see what I found. I’m warning you now— it ain’t for the faint of heart.”

Micah handed Dutch the journal and he took it tentatively, as though Micah had handed him a live rattlesnake, ignoring Hosea’s fuming anger behind him. The paper was stiff in his hands and the writing was obscured by filth and tears, but it was legible nonetheless.

“Dutch, don’t you _dare_ — You know he wouldn’t want that,” Hosea warned, digging his fingers into Dutch’s shoulder.

Dutch stared at the page in silence and read those awful words over, and over, and over, and over.

" _Dutch_ —"

He handed the journal to Hosea, the blood entirely drained out of his face. With a disgusted shake of his head, Hosea closed the book, refusing to look at what Arthur had left there. 

Micah sneered, feigned innocence and concern cloyingly heavy in his tone, “ _Really_ makes you question the folks you run with, huh? Why— You don’t think that’s why he’s run off, do you?”

“Get out,” Dutch’s voice was flat and empty, not unlike his haunted gaze, “Both of you. _Out_.”

Micah, wide-eyed, turned to Dutch, backing out of the tent at the man’s calamitous glower. Dutch’s mouth was pressed into a tight line. He turned his back, though his shoulders were still held tight and his head hung low; Micah could hardly bite back the tiny smirk that quirked on his lips; he gracefully bowed out, hands raised in surrender.

Hosea snarled, squaring up to Micah with an awful scowl as he passed by, “You breathe one word of this to anyone— _anyone_ — and I swear to _God_ there won't be enough of you to bury.”

Without another word, lest he provoke Hosea’s elderly wrath, Micah grabbed Baylock and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avast ye, matey. Here there be monsters. 
> 
> Specifically fucking Micah, the rat bastard. I’m so easily charmed by pet names that I actually warmed up to him during my first playthrough cause he called Arthur 'sweetheart'. And then he was a racist, sexist, traitorous rat who should have been left to hang in Strawberry. 
> 
> I will stay mad that Baylock, the prettiest horse in the entire game, is stuck with Micah. Poor thing deserves better— I know Arthur would treat that magnificent beast right! ♡
> 
> Also, for the record, Dutch and Hosea tried to teach Arthur about stranger danger, but when every other stranger sent him on a quest and it's a 50/50 shot that he'd get some kind of sick reward, their lessons just didn't stick. Plus the idea of an exasperated Dutch and Hosea having to stop Arthur from walking away with any schmuck on the street promising him a puppy or something was just too cute to pass up.
> 
> This chapter though. Ugh. 
> 
> Deep breath in. 
> 
> Out. 
> 
> Okay. 
> 
> See you Sunday ♡


	12. I. XII

O’Creagh’s Run was one of the prettiest places Arthur had stayed in a long while. Hamish’s cabin was cramped but there was plenty of warmth and comfort to make up for it. He couldn’t quite fish yet, but he could sit with Hamish while the older man cast into the lake; with The Tyrant gone and tacked up on Hamish’s mantle, the other fish had been able to grow stupid and fat. Hamish kept only the fattest, throwing anything too small to make a good meal right back into the inky green water. 

He’d more or less healed from his short trip to Valentine; Hamish had obsessively taken up the mantle of nurse those first few days, but now the job largely fell to Arthur. He was happy to have some measure of independence. He would never admit to it, certain that Hamish would cuff him upside the head at the mere suggestion, but he’d been thinking of his family as of late. Of Dutch. Of apologies and long conversations, but none of these thoughts held any substance beyond the vaguest inkling that maybe, sometime, he might want to return home after he recovered— just to talk, he assured himself, as if 'just talking' didn't bring with it its own share of complications. 

For now, he drew in a deep breath of the sweet Ambarino air. For the first time in years, maybe in his entire life, Arthur could clearly picture what the coming days looked like and he was eager to see them through. Idle mornings, lazy afternoons, a life lived without the ever-present fear of calamity. Life in O’Creagh’s Run was easy, and Arthur didn’t mind half as much as he thought he would. 

He sat on the very edge of the dock, Buell nibbling on the grass behind him and Odessa wading into the waters to cool off. Arthur took a slow, agonizing drag from his cigarette, watching his exhale mix with the swollen clouds overhead. His arm ached something fierce.

He spent a lot of time with the horses these days, spending hours staring out at the lake, or watching the local animals sniff around as he absently patted Buell and Odessa— lest the other get jealous, he made sure to give each equal time and equal treats. Arthur had always had a soft spot for Buell, the ornery bastard. 

His newest goal— gone unspoken— was to get well enough to ride the brute. Even a short jaunt on Odessa’s back was enough to leave him sore; between Buell’s fiery temper and his tendency to throw Hamish over just about anything, Arthur wasn’t quite ready to risk it. A throw might permanently fuck him up; at the very least, it would set his already painfully slow healing back a few weeks, maybe more depending on how he landed. For now, he settled with tying braids into the horse's tail and showering the beast with as much affection as Odessa would allow. 

Without warning, Buell snorted loudly, stamping his hooves into the dirt. He backed towards Arthur, tossing his head and digging his hooves until Odessa, usually unshakable, was alarmed as well, her ears pinned back and teeth gnashing. Arthur froze, looking between the startled horses, hand hovering above his sidearm— it was more habit than necessity to keep it on him at this point, but nevertheless he was grateful. The last time he’d seen Buell so mad was when a rattlesnake had found its way into their bale of hay— Odessa was happy to stomp the thing to death, unperturbed by the scaly visitor, but Arthur had been ready to step in if he had to, though he could only imagine what had gotten them to spooked. 

Briefly, he considered that if it was a stray bear that wandered too close or a pack of particularly hungry wolves looking for an easy meal, his side arm wouldn’t do much but draw their attention. He played with the idea of grabbing something a little stronger before he remembered he couldn’t; without his arm, rifles, shotguns, and repeaters were simply out of the question. He considered calling for Hamish. Unfortunately, the nuisance revealed itself to before Arthur could do much of anything. 

“ _I am undone_ ,” Micah bellowed, dramatically throwing a hand across his face as he appeared from behind the small cabin, swaggering over as though he owned the place. Arthur tried to hide the way he damn near leaped out of his skin, “ _… by these thoughts. Some fool I must be._ “

Arthur groaned, rolling his eyes, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, huh? How’d you find me?”

“ _Seems like some sort of cruel irony_ ,” Micah cast him a knowing glance, one laced with venom and distaste, before his eyes again drew towards the paper in his hand.

“The hell are you on about?” Arthur asked, taken aback but feigning anger to cover confusion as he was so apt to do. Something was painfully familiar about the words, if he were to strip away the hysterics of it all. Something awful and bitter creeped into his mouth. His fingers again wrapped around his Schofield. “What do you want? I’m gone, ain’t that enough for you?!”

“ _To finally free myself of Mary—_ “ Micah continued with his theatrics, unperturbed.

Arthur’s heart sank. His breath stuck in his chest. He leveled his revolver, aim steady and surely deadly and pinned right between Micah's ribs, fighting against the quivering in his hand. Darkness slowly swallowed the edges of O’Creagh’s Run. 

“You best quit—“

His face twisted in sour rage.

“ _… only to again be consumed by D_ _ut_ _ch ,_” he punctuated the line with a sickening grin.

 _“—_ Micah!”

White hot, his heart thundered in his chest, his mind abuzz with white noise. Arthur drew back the hammer. Micah carried on, dramatically casting a hand over his eyes.

 _“I can’t for the life of me seem to shake him from my mind. It is as if these long, long years have taught me nothing. I truly am sick._ ”

Micah went down hard, and Arthur went with him. Gun thrown aside, Arthur tackled Micah who gained the upper hand after just a moment, throwing his heft with ease and pinning Arthur to the ground, letting the torn page settle to the ground as they fought. Arthur’s eyes found the handwritten words as they fell into the dirt— his handwriting, his words— and his blood ran cold. Anger, raw and fearful and hot and cold and a thousand other things, flared in his stomach. 

Micah’s cackle floated through the air, burning into Arthur’s ears.

“You bastard!” Arthur spat, Micah’s breath was rancid and hot on his cheek.

“Gotta say, I never pinned you as a fag, Morgan! Much less an _incestuous_ one! Then again, seems Dutch didn't neither… he was just as surprised as I was!”

“ _You goddamned son of a—_ “

“Fine, _pseudo-incestuous_ , since you’re so keen on particulars.”

 _“Fuck you!_ ” Arthur drove his fist into Micah’s nose as hard as he could muster, despite the roar of pain in his arm. The man tumbled off of him, swiping the blood from his lip as it poured down his face. Arthur pushed back to his feet with a growl. He could feel blood soaking into the bandages on his arm, but nevertheless grabbed Micah by the collar of his shirt. _“I ought to—“_

“Hey, hey, easy! Calm down, cowpoke,” Micah laughed, holding his hands up in surrender as he scrambled away from the savage rage billowing off of Arthur. His voice dripped with cloyingly fake empathy, “I don’t much care what you get into— or what gets into you. I came as a favor— to let you know that it’s about time you cleared out. See, when Dutch heard about your little crush on him, well, let’s just say he was less than flattered. Went on a damn rampage, told each and every one of us to drop everything and go find you. Dead or alive, he said,” Micah dug into his pocket and tossed the crumpled entry about Hamish at Arthur’s feet, “But I would never— not when Dutch is fixin’ to see you killed over something so simple as a little _lovesicknes_ s! He’s got your journal, Morgan, wrecked as it is, and if I could find this place, so could he. I took some of the more damning evidence ‘fore he could see it— you’re welcome.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, searching the air for answers he couldn’t find. “Cut the shit, I don't know what the hell you're playing at, but Dutch wouldn’t— ” His voice broke. 

Micah bit back against a grin that threatened to pull across his features, watching in sheer delight as Arthur wavered. As Arthur floundered. As he doubted. 

“Dutch is convinced that your... _peculiar nature_... might have attracted the wrong kind of attention; he thinks you’re a liability. And let’s be honest, I can see why. Imagine how he must feel knowin’ his own son is thinking those thoughts and sleeping not ten feet away. Frankly, it's nauseating. Way I see it, he ain’t got no choice but to kill you, lest folks suspect he’s one of _your kind_. But hey, I figured I at least owed you a head start, what with all our history.”

“You goddamned lying _bastard!_ Dutch would never— he— he wouldn’t…”

He might. Arthur knew it in that moment. He could see it on Micah's face.

“Look, believe me or don’t. I’ve done my duty. Consider us square, sweetheart.”

The click of a hammer from behind Micah. Arthur’s ears buzzed, the world around him swirling and muted.

“Either you get the hell off my property or I start shooting,” Hamish growled, digging the barrel of his rifle into the base of Micah’s skull, “You’re goddamned lucky I ain't in the mood to be scrubbing your innards off my porch.”

Micah chuckled, lifting his chin, and raising his hands in mock surrender once more. He chuckled, dry and inhuman, as though remembering a joke someone told him a long time ago, just before he gutted them, “… Guess I’ll see you around, Morgan.”

Hands still raised, he stalked off, just as quickly as he’d arrived. The minute he was out of sight, Arthur dropped to the ground, pressing a hand over his mouth, shaking. Sick. 

“Rat bastard…” Hamish spat, watching Micah disappear into the forest. As he turned to Arthur, Hamish’s face melted into a look of worry, “Hey now— you okay, kiddo?”

Arthur didn’t respond; he didn’t even look up, too thoroughly consumed by the darkness that had swallowed O'Creagh's Run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys trust me, right? 
> 
> ... because surprise, it’s actually a romance! ♡*throws pitiful handful of confetti*♡
> 
> And Dutch is even more of A Asshole. *a second, more pitiful handful of confetti*. 
> 
> I didn’t want to blindside anybody, but fic, like ogres and onions, has layers. One such layer is that it’s actually also sort of a kind of a romance. Somewhat. It’s hard to explain. It’s honestly a rocky road, one that leads peculiar places... But doesn't actually go anywhere for a long, long while. And don’t worry! There won’t be any smut, I swear. I am not the one, I would never put y’all through it ♡ But there will be plenty of angst. You can count on that. 
> 
> (On the bright side, we can finally talk a bit more about that slash tag!) ♡
> 
> This chapter really got into my head. It's been... some kind of week. Pop into the comments, let me know what you think!
> 
> I've changed my posting schedule too! Now I'll post three chapters each week- Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, with an occasional Friday or Saturday thrown into the mix if there's an egregiously short chapter that week. 
> 
> The suffering continues on Tuesday. Be strong, babies. Daddy loves you ♡


	13. I. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of child abuse and homophobia (both internalized and external), suicidal thoughts
> 
> Also, for anyone not into the Arthur/Dutch tag but still willing to give this a shot: Arthur contemplates his feelings for Dutch in this one, and Hamish has something to say on the matter as well. Nothing graphic, but I figured it's best to give folks a heads up! ♡

Quiet pieces of him refused to believe that Dutch would react so violently.

Refused to believe that, after all these years, all the hell he's been through, _this_ is what finally kills him.

Micah was a rat-faced bastard, Arthur knew that down into his marrow. He was a man determined to step on others to get what he wanted— and for the life of him, gripped tight as he was by panic, Arthur couldn’t figure out what that might be. If he wanted Arthur dead, which Arthur didn't doubt, he could have just shot him and been done with it, and nobody would have ever known. He had no choice but to put some measure of faith in the man's odious words; to believe that there was a chance that Dutch would be furious enough to call for his head, and that even Hosea wouldn’t have been able to quell that rage. 

... If Hosea had even tried. Arthur vanished without a single parting word; he'd deliberately disobeyed Hosea's request that he stay in bed and take it easy, and look where that got him. Arthur's stomach turned. If Dutch was furious, Hosea must be _livid_. Angry enough to see Arthur lynched? He couldn’t quite dismiss the idea.

Something small fractured like too-thin ice atop a lake, threatening to drown him in the murky depths beneath. 

_He'd warned him._ Hosea had warned him about this _affliction_. He'd cautioned against this illness _years_ ago, as if Arthur hadn't done everything he could to stop it, and now it was going to get him killed. He should have listened. Goddamnit, he should have listened for _once_ in his fucking life.

He couldn't convince himself to breathe.

Arthur knew he was unusual. The frequent beatings his daddy gave him were assurance enough that maybe he alone felt the same fondness for men as he did for women. No matter how bad his pa would hurt him, no matter how many welts and gashes he left with that damn belt, that didn’t seem to change. Folk of all kind charmed him in different ways, each drawing him in with perhaps a sideways smile or a gentle touch upon his hand. He would easily find himself drifting off in the hazy warmth of the late afternoon, dreaming of impossible days with the present object of his affection. Typically his mind would wander away to a small farm he’d seen only in passing, nearby a pond, where he and his beloved would live out their days in quiet by each other’s side, resting together beneath dipping willow trees and watching fireflies weave themselves through the grass like little constellations.

He would find his heart warmed by these waking dreams, thoughts of interlaced fingers and stolen kisses tucked away and saved for later. If nothing else, it was a way to pass time while out on the trail.

Man, woman, or otherwise, Arthur bore no prejudice— and yet his dreaming, his warmth, went no further. Unlike, it seemed, the rest of the world around him, Arthur was perfectly content to keep to his queerness locked away in thought alone. Not that it mattered whether he was content or not; the objects of his affection were so damned fleeting, and his dreams so intangible, here one day and gone the next.

But Dutch?

Dutch was permanent. Had been for years.

And he _hated_ it. Always had. He kept Dutch in his journal— certain he might rupture if he tried to keep all those goddamned thoughts locked up in his head— as best he could, fully intending to take those particularly nasty feelings to his grave with him.

He should’ve brought the journal. Should have burned the damn thing. Should have double or triple locked the box, as if locks mattered to any of the folks in camp when damn near half of them could pick locks with their eyes closed and the other half was happy to shoot the damn things off without a second thought.

Should have kept those words in his head.

Should have guessed this is how it would end.

Should have run sooner.

Should have drowned himself in the churning black waters of the Dakota when he had the chance.

Should have shot himself years ago. 

But a million ‘should haves’ could do nothing against the torrential downpour of raw panic that filled his stomach because now _they all knew_.

_Dutch knew._

That _thing_ he’d kept so carefully guarded all these years, all those days of suffering under the weight of this awful _beast_ that took hold of his life, and all it took was one goddamned fucking slip up and _they knew. He knew._

…Fuck.

_Fuck._

_Fuck!_

Arthur’s mind raced. His thoughts frothed and writhed, wilting and dying just as quickly as they sprouted. He tried, and failed, to grab a hold of any one train of thought, but they were too fast, too slow, too slippery, too incomplete. A shiver set into him; dread seeped into his marrow.

They knew, and they were going to kill him for it. 

He could see it, the look that surely was on Dutch’s face as he read— _fuck,_ all the _shit_ he wrote in that journal, the pages upon pages of words even he couldn't bear to read and by now they'd surely gone through it all, reading it aloud and laughing everything he'd written.

It’d be the same look he’d worn the last time Arthur saw him, only this time tinged with disgust. That same, angry look. Wrathful. Contemptuous. That image, that vivid picture of Dutch’s face darkening with each and every entry, every turn of the page only deepening the grave Arthur had dug for himself, wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he shook his head and twisted his fingers into his hair. Bile rose in his throat. 

He still couldn't breathe, and didn't particularly want to. 

“Arthur—“

Hamish.

"Gotta breathe, kid—"

Shit, _Hamish._

“I gotta go,” Arthur said, unable to look Hamish in the eye as he retreated back into the cabin, hand trembling as he shoved his few belonging back into his satchel, “I-I’m so sorry, Hamish, I have to—Shit. _Shit!_ “

“Arthur, sit down a minute. What’s going on?”

Arthur pursed his lips, unable or unwilling to speak such dangerous words. Dangerous for whom, Arthur couldn’t say. Instead, he floundered for a moment, trying to figure out the right way to explain years of deceit and disgust— how to explain just how royally he’d fucked things up— without setting Hamish against him too.

“They’re comin’ after me,” his heart flickered in his chest, too much, too fast, “—And if I don’t leave, I’m gonna get you killed.”

"Shit, I gathered that much.”

Arthur froze. A cold sweat dripped down his face. Frantic and out of control only a moment before, his thoughts ground to a stagnant halt.

“What’d you hear?”

“Well, damn, walls ain’t so thick and that boy’s got a loud mouth. Arthur, sit down before you hurt yourself,” Hamish gripped Arthur’s arm as tight as he could, hoping to at least delay his descent into blind, inconsolable panic, “Let’s think this through; if we’re running, we’re running, but let’s have a plan before we do something stupid.”

“ _We?_ Hamish, I couldn’t— you heard what he said, you ain’t—“

“Ain’t what?”

“Ain’t… Ain’t _put off_?” the words emerged as a harsh whisper, almost as though Arthur was afraid someone else might hear; as if the world didn’t already know what he was.

Hamish put a hand on Arthur’s neck, warm and strong. Steady. He quirked a brow at Arthur.

“This Dutch fellow. He your kin?”

Arthur blinked owlishly at the question. All he could muster was a slightly delayed, “N-no.”

“He a child?”

“… No.”

“Then what the hell do I care? Long as you’re _happy_ and you ain’t hurting nobody— man, woman, whatever, so long as you like them they’re welcome in any home of mine. ‘Course, I can’t say I’m the man’s biggest fan, given what all he’s put you through, but a little love never hurt nobody.”

Arthur stood in shocked silence, suddenly overwhelmed with the warm glow of love; real love, familial love. He was certain, in that moment, that this might even be the rumored 'unconditional love' he'd heard so much about. It was as if a weight, however small, had melted from his shoulders. Arthur drew in a shaky breath, blinking back the beginning grip of tears. He sat, finally, face hidden in his palm, hoping to hide his desperate expression from Hamish, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Hamish sat with him, rubbing small circles into his back as he took a deep, if shuddered, breath.

“Actually,” Hamish feigned thought, carefully wording his lie, “This is great timing. I have quite a favor to ask, I figure now you might be more inclined to agree.”

“What’s that?”

“See, I got this huntin cabin, down in New Austin, right beside this big ol lake. Go there every winter, might be the last place a man can get some peace and quiet, but last year the damn thing nearly came down on me. I was intending to go down early this year, see if I can’t fix the place up, but I’m old as hell and ain’t got no leg, not to mention a bastard horse to watch. I ain’t quite sure if I could manage on my own,” he eyed Arthur, watching him with a great deal of caution, “I’d be real thankful if you’d come on down there with me and help me get the place nice, ‘fore winter comes. I had planned on surprising you with the trip, figured you could use a break… I’ll even show you this big ass cougar what comes by to mess with me on occasion.”

“Hamish, I don’t need—“

Arthur wasn’t even sure how he was going to finish that sentence. His mind had drawn up blank. There wasn’t much he didn’t need at the moment. He didn’t have to finish it, though, as Hamish interrupted him without a second thought.

“I don’t give a shit what you need, way I figure it, you owe me this! For uh— for letting you drink all my coffee. So pack your shit quick, we can leave soon as you’re ready. It’s remote, hardly anyone knows it's there. I doubt them fools’ll find you all the way down there, and even if they do, I got a handful of shotgun shells with their names on ‘em. Go on, then! Get a move on.”

A delicate, newly born whisper of hope sat heavy on Arthur’s chest when he saw the look on Hamish’s face; protective, determined, and stern. Dutch used to wear that look. He wanted to express how grateful he was; to follow his mentor's example and give a well-crafted speech about the meaning of family and love, about how he would happily die for Hamish if he could, and how appreciative he was that Hamish had taken him in off of the streets.

Instead, Arthur gripped Hamish’s shoulder tight.

“Wait, I…” Arthur’s heart thundered in his chest, piecing his words together deliberately. There was no damn way he was about to drag the man along on a hell-for-leather run south. “... Can I ask you a favor, actually? You done more than enough, but, uh… Would you… I got I know this is a lot to ask, but would you mind sticking around, just a little longer, in case somethin' happens? There's this widow, at Willard’s Rest, lovely lady. I was teaching her to hunt, but now… Well, now she might make a better hunting trip than I do. I had told her where you were, if she ever found herself in dire straits and I weren't around. If those folks got my journal, Lord knows who they’ll hassle to get to me…I’ll… I’ll fix the place up a little before you get there, I promise, but I can’t leave knowing she might be in danger.”

He didn’t want to leave. Lord, he didn’t want to go, and he certainly didn’t want to face the Van der Lindes alone, if thats what was going to happen.

But if Hamish got hurt on his behalf? If Hamish were to die just for the crime of knowing him, a fate the universe was keen to deal out? Arthur wasn’t quite sure he could take it.

Not with the threat of lawmen, the constant baying of bounty hunters, and the occasional bushwhacking by O’Driscoll’s and Raiders. He sure as hell couldn’t protect the pair of them with just one arm; he wasn’t sure he could protect _himself_. 

The more distance he could put between himself and Hamish, the better. 

Hamish put a hand on Arthur’s, squeezing gently despite the fire that burned in his eyes. “Okay. All right. I’ll check in on your friend, make sure she’s doing fine. I’ll finish up a few things ‘round here and be down quick as I can. You be sure to send me a letter as soon as you get there so I know you made it safe.”

“Hamish… If they come here—“

Arthur stopped himself short, once again searching for a conclusion he couldn’t quite find. Arthur had the page; the one where he mapped out O'Creagh's run, and the only entry he had written about where, exactly, Hamish lived. Short of Micah leading the gang back, he doubted they'd find the place. But if they did, if they got it in their minds to take out their anger on Hamish—

Once again, Hamish quickly offered him a reprieve from his loathsome thoughts, stopping that particularly nasty train just as quickly as it started.

“For their sake, I hope they don’t. Buell and I don’t take too kindly to guests,” there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, one that both amused and terrified Arthur, “Next time someone steps on my property, I guarantee they won’t be walkin’ away.”

Arthur nodded, chewing on his lip, deep in thought. He thrust his Litchfield into Hamish’s hands, grabbing it from where it had been leaned against Hamish’s wardrobe.

He’d put in more hours on that gun than he could count, obsessively cleaning and reassembling it until he could do so with his eyes closed. He’d even spent the money to customize it, his initials carved into the stock alongside a deer skull. It had been the first gun he bought for himself that wasn't a hand-me-down with a gruesome history. His blood and sweat had soaked into the dark wood over the years leaving an undeniable mark of his bond with the weapon.

“Take it,” Arthur’s eyes bore into him, hoping to convey through action what he couldn’t put in words, “I ain’t able to use her anyways. Fires quick and puts folks down for good. Anyone comes by— if they give you any trouble…”

Hamish let out a low whistle, turning the gun over in his hands, “She’s damn fine. Thank you. You be safe, kiddo, okay? I mean it. Don’t uh... Don’t let the place burn down.”

A smile, shaky and unsure as a freshly born fawn, slipped onto Arthur’s face, though something potently sad lurked beneath. “You too, Hamish. And uh… thanks. For everything. Weren’t for you, I'd probably still be face-down in the street in Valentine.”

“Hey now, don’t you go pretending this is some sort of goodbye, kid,” Hamish clapped him on the shoulder, "We'll be back on the hunt before you know it!"

“… Right.”

Hamish watched Arthur take off, his face pulled into a frown. Better, but not good. Capable, but not certain. He grit his teeth together, hoping he’d done enough. Hoping Arthur would make it into New Austin.

Hoping those bastards showed up on his doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … Did I mention that I’m sorry?
> 
> And so we reach the beginning of Act II, in which things Continue To Get Worse. Not that anyone’s keeping track. 
> 
> As a semi-closeted queer, let me tell you: a forced outing is one of my worst fears. Ugh. Fucking Micah. 
> 
> Anyone pedantic enough to care: my boy Arthur’s a panro ace. Gotta get that representation. ♡  
> (I just realized, a few days later, that not everyone is as 'up with the lingo' as the kids say. My bad! Panro Ace is short for panromantic asexual: someone who can feel romantic love for anyone, regardless of gender, sex, or presentation, but does not feel sexual attraction!)
> 
> Hamish comes in clutch as usual, holding the line as the only good thing in Arthur's life. ♡ We stan. ♡ Fic idea: Micah kills Arthur, and Hamish goes out and single-handedly dismantles the entire Van der Linde gang in revenge. Then he, Hosea, and Charles, the only people in this entire fic that have any kind of sense, all go fishing together and become best friends. Red Dead Hamish, coming soon to a theater near you. 
> 
> FR though, after this and the fic I have planned for after, I might fuck around with Hamish some more. He's got potential, and I'd kill for him to spend time with Hosea. And I think he'd get a kick out of Dutch, too. ♡
> 
> I don't want this note getting too long, but just a fun little 'behind the scenes' thing: in the initial planning for this fic, Arthur was gonna go stay with Charlotte, not Hamish. It was a cute interaction, but didn't end up working out. God, I love her though. ♡♡
> 
> All right, that's it for now! Stay gold, ponyboy! ♡ See you on Thursday!


	14. I. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal thoughts, internalized homophobia, implied thoughts of self harm
> 
> Additional warning for anyone who's not here for it: some more mentions of one-sided affection from Arthur in this one.

The sun bore down on him with an undeserved gentleness, a soft touch accompanied by the most delicate, sweet breeze Arthur had known in a long time. 

God, he wanted a drink.

His head pounded, ready to split like an overripe melon. Arthur hadn’t had a drop of anything stronger than coffee since he’d parted ways with Hamish. He ached for it now, but had to keep himself sharp.

Arthur was an old friend to fear. It was all he knew as a boy, after his mother passed; the all-encompassing fear that comes from too many experiences all happening too quickly to someone too young to understand it. He supposed— later, long after the days of flinching at every noise and the sleepless nights watching every shadow with wide, unseeing eyes— that the fear had been good for him, in some way. After a while, as he grew into a man capable of acting upon that fear, it hardened into something different; something heavier and meaner. Spite, perhaps, or maybe anger. Whatever it was, as soon as he grabbed hold of it the world stopped being so scary and started being a sad, vile place.

But now?

The fear was back, that hardened _thing_ cracked open and oozing every drop spoiled of terror he’d tamped down into it. He’d felt the very edges of that fear, thawing and writhing, those first days at Hamish’s place. He’d managed to push it back again and honestly thought he’d seen the last of it, at least for a while. He swallowed back against the tightness in his throat because once again he was exactly what he always had been: helpless.

In both the way that he could not help himself— he usually placed his problems at the end of a gun, but he couldn’t very well shoot Dutch, could he?— and in the way that there was no man alive who could help him. He hadn't expected such a volatile reaction to these unwanted feelings— not that he’d ever intended to tell the man, but by now that was beside the point. The idea of it made his heart ache, as though wrung between someone's hands. Men had been killed for less.

And now, surely, Arthur was to join their number.

The wrath of the Van der Lindes was legendary; so much as Dutch liked to say they couldn’t afford revenge, well, he’d yet to see anyone cross the man and live to tell about it. He'd seen worse done to better men for lesser offenses; hell, he'd _done_ worse to all kinds of folk for all kinds of shit, content to leave the moralizing to Dutch.

As he and Odessa stalked down back roads, past oblivious travelers, he realized that he was once again at the mercy of the same kind of people who had once crossed the road just to avoid acknowledging a newly orphaned child with an empty belly and a heart full of hatred, one who certainly deserved every ounce of pity they could spare... or at least a damn penny. Here he was some twenty-odd years later, an awful man on his own with a gun to his head and a bounty high enough to buy a small country; five thousand (last he checked, though that was quite a few massacres ago) _very_ good reasons for any man, woman, or child to turn him away. Or turn him in. Or, hell, shoot him dead without warning.

They’d be right to do so. It’s what he would do.

Each noise made him jump out of his skin, and it only worsened as time wore on. Every click was the draw of a hammer, every breeze a whisper just behind him, every stray sunbeam a reflection off of the barrel of a rifle. Every man passing by was a threat; a lawman, a bounty hunter, a well-meaning stranger with a loud mouth, and Arthur held his breath each time he crossed someone’s path, his hand twitching towards his gun, watching for that spark of recognition.

Driven off by that fear, by those people, he pushed into the thick woods of Ambarino. He’d mapped out his route carefully; he had to avoid towns, had to avoid main roads, had to keep from leaving too long of a trail. From O’Creagh’s run, he set out west, keeping North past Valentine and not daring to turn south until Strawberry was far beyond him.

He worked Odessa as hard as he could stomach, a mantra of apologies spilling out of his mouth each time they trod through brambles or landed hard from an unseen drop. She heaved beneath him, but offered no complaints. He spoke softly to her, sang just under his breath, and tried his damnedest not to shoot at everything that moved, thoroughly crushed in the grip of paranoia though he was.

He wondered how long it would take them to catch up.If Micah was to be believed, and every passing hour found Arthur believing him more, surely they must be couldn't be far behind. 

He knew how Dutch thought; twenty years at a man's side, carefully watching every move, will do that. If Dutch was after him, he’d scatter the troops; send folks off in every direction with a harsh shout of _“find him now!”,_ and off they’d scurry, dutifully checking towns, camps, caverns, just about anywhere Arthur could potentially be hiding. He knew, vaguely, how they would move; how they would search. He’d pulled out every trick he knew to throw off pursuers in response, making sure he travelled undetected and did so faster than the others could.

Something inside him, bold but bitter all the same, mused that while _they_ spent their time passed out in saloons or laying around camp, _he_ had been out here fighting for his fucking life. His, _and theirs_. If they could catch him, which would be quite the feat with Odessa beneath him, there was no way in hell they’d keep him. That’s assuming they could even _find_ him, working as hard as he was to throw them off of his trail in land he knew so well as this.

In return, they had his journal, which clearly was not as destroyed as he thought it was. A stupid mistake, perhaps a deadly one, but one he could work with. If they had his journal, they’d use precious manpower checking in on the folks he wrote fondly of. Most of those leads would drive them east. Hell, half of those people couldn’t be found anymore. It was a waste of their time, he just hoped they wouldn't notice that until it was too late. 

Assuming they even bothered to follow his journal.

Arthur frowned. The most pressing threat was Charles. If he could be persuaded to Dutch’s crusade, and Arthur wasn’t sure he could, but considered the possibility regardless, the gang would be at his heels in no time. Charles’s tracking was second to none— the man was not unlike a bloodhound, able to follow a rabbit through three-foot briar patches and thick underbrush with no problem at all. Finding Arthur, in his panicked, blind escape, would be a damn cakewalk. Add Javier to the mix, less accomplished as a tracker though he more than made up for it in enthusiasm and determination, Arthur had half a mind to throw in the towel then and there.

For now, though, he kept going. He had to— Hamish was counting on him to make it to New Austin. He’d bested scores of bounty hunters with _actual_ bloodhounds, he could manage. He kicked Odessa into a quicker gallop, squeezing every ounce out of her that he could. He has to be faster, had to push himself harder, had to outpace them where he couldn’t outmatch them. Days and nights blurred together along the trail; Arthur barely slept through any of it.

Arthur said all of this to Odessa, who seemed happy to serve as party to a fairly one-sided conversation. It was an easy distraction for both of them, a way to air out the vile miasma that festered inside him, same as he would in his journal. 

He hoped Hamish was okay. He knew he was far safer with him long gone, but some small part of him kept whispering that he had left the man to face a firing squad. Guilt ripened in his gut. There was something else there, too, beyond guilt. Anger. Resentment. Frustration. Something else, cold, hard, and painful to so much as acknowledge.

He supposed there was a reason he hadn’t breathed a word of his feelings to Dutch; his wholehearted adoration of the man was by now a simple fact, the edges worn off of it by passing years.

The sun would rise, trees would grow, Arthur loved Dutch.

As a fact, it was never forgotten, never remembered, only rekindled every time Dutch would smile in that certain way of his, unpracticed and natural, or when he’d leave his hand to linger on Arthur’s shoulder for a moment too long. The siren call of Dutch’s impassioned speeches, these days a hollow imitation of what they used to be, left Arthur breathless and hopelessly charmed. The jingle of his rings against one another as he turned the pages of a book. The way his hair fell in little ringlets each morning before Dutch brutally slicked them back. How his expression betrayed his thoughts when he got a little too lost in his own mind.

Arthur felt sick. 

He tried; for years he tried to rid himself of this _curse_. When nothing worked, he settled for tamping those feelings down as far as he could. When it was bad— as it had been these past months, since just before Blackwater— Arthur kept himself away from camp. Away from Dutch, and any keen eyes of those that might notice his forlorn glances and lingering stares. It was routine at this point, more habit than anything. It was hardly an issue anymore; he was so used to these awful thoughts that he was completely numb to them. A nuisance, most days, if that; something to scribble in his journal. Monotonous. Boring. A fact.

The wind would blow, the tides would shift, Arthur loves Dutch. 

Strange to think that something so tiresome would bring about such a violent end.

He knew Dutch was at the end of his rope well before Blackwater, and that rope only frayed and splintered after their descent from Colter. He knew that this wasn’t Dutch; he knew he should have left well enough alone, but good ol’ _self destructive Morgan_ , has to break what he has before someone else does. If he’d been a little more careful, a little less stupid, maybe he would have been allowed to stay, even an extra day or two, long enough to say his goodbyes. If he’d been more careful with his journal, maybe they wouldn’t have found it and he could’ve stayed at O’Creagh’s Run a while longer, and Dutch wouldn’t have ever known the awful thoughts that had consumed him all these years. If he’d been more aware of his surroundings, those O’Driscolls would never have captured him. If he’d just stood up to Dutch for _once_ , maybe the entire parlay would have been avoided.

If he’d just let himself die on those streets when he was a boy, maybe he wouldn’t be hurting so much now.

But if Lyle Morgan taught him anything, it was how to survive.Arthur continued on. His revolver grew heavy in its holster.

And yet, despite the flurry of thoughts that pounded in his skull and the emotions stirring in his stomach, he couldn’t help but wonder what _else_ they might have read. 

Arthur only relaxed, if marginally, when he hit the open plains of Big Valley, far from roads and farther from civilization. Big Valley had always been a favorite of his; good game, mostly quiet, and full of purple lupine, which stuck to his clothes and left him smelling slightly floral all day. The trees towered high and, when they caught the wind just right, mixed with the scent of the lupine blooms in an intoxicating perfume that Arthur found himself dreaming of some days. A perfume Dutch had complimented once when Arthur had returned from a long hunt with that scent still on his skin. Today, it was merely a cloying reminder of better days.

His chest hurt.

The sky had turned inky above him before he’d realized. Arthur tugged Odessa into the trees, setting up the smallest of camps for himself. The second his feet hit the earth, his body moaned in exhaustion. His left arm shrieked, seizing him with a sharp bolt of pain with no warning. Arthur curled over it with a strangled cry. Arthur caught himself before he stumbled, leaning heavily against Odessa as the world stopped spinning.

A moment to breathe, then two. He set about making camp.

No tent this evening, only a fire barely big enough to chase away the nip in the air. He laid out his bedroll, not daring to look in his satchel for dinner because he knew none was there. He’d hunt, then. There was just enough sun, and more than enough game, Arthur would just have to find it. He grabbed his Schofield— far from his first choice for a hunt, especially when the goal was something small enough for one person, but it would do. He could make do.

Arthur stalked through the grass. Wildlife in the area was, by and large, unfamiliar with man; while this left the wolves and bears particularly nasty, fat from a diet of lost travelers, it also meant most of the animals wouldn’t spook immediately at the sight of him. Even the herds of wild horses that dotted the meadows were satisfied to let him observe from a distance.

He spotted a jackrabbit, ears perked up above the tall grass.

Took aim.

Fired.

And missed.

Everything in the area scattered at once, moving like the sea as the shot echoed through the valley. Arthur grit his teeth so horribly tight he feared they might finally break. One more hungry night, he supposed, bitter but too exhausted to do anything but stomp his way back to his camp, biting back tears. He angrily threw his gun to the side, letting it rest next to Odessa’s tack.

He settled in next to his fire. Leaned against a tree, Arthur pulled the brim of his hat down low, listening to the crickets chirp as a hush settled over the land.

His shoulder burned and bit and ached in ways it hadn’t in weeks.

His stomach, too.

His chest.

 _Everything_ hurt.

Arthur swallowed back against it. Almost without thought, he pulled his hunting knife from it’s sheathe, feeling it’s familiar weight in his palm. He studied the blade for a moment, hoping to distract from the way his arm throbbed beneath the sling. He curled his fingers around the ebony handle, uncurled them. Ran his thumb along the flat of the blade. Admired the edge in the firelight. 

Anger ripped across his face. He stabbed the blade deep into the grass, a hair's breadth from the meat of his thigh.

He stopped talking to Odessa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quietly eyes a list of alcohol withdrawal symptoms* 
> 
> There’s a lot of feelings in this one. Lot of bad shit being dredged to the surface. 
> 
> Aah, I thought I'd share the news with y'all (good or bad), I did a full chapter estimate. By my count, this will probably end up being somewhere around 37 chapters. 
> 
> Which... I mean, shit. That's a lot of chapters. 
> 
> I hope you guys will stick around for it! ♡ And if you don't, that's okay too! ♡ But I hope you do because I love each and every single one of you, even if you don't leave any more than a hit ♡
> 
> See you all on Sunday, babes! You be good! ♡♡♡


	15. Chapter II: Big Valley

The night air in Big Valley was frigid and heavy, but Arthur could barely feel it. He leaned against Odessa, who had curled up at his side, her warm hide chasing back the bite in the air. He watched the fire crackle and spark at his feet, casting off embers like fireflies. He was certain the sky was awash in bright, swirling stars, but he couldn’t bring himself to look.

Big Valley was his own little secret; it was too far from civilization to matter. The area was void of any interesting or lucrative targets, so he’d never found reason to talk about his time there. It existed as a small haven, a place untouched untouched and untainted by the gang, if any place could be.

What Arthur remembered too late, however, was exactly _why_ there wasn’t anything in Big Valley.

“Would you look at this,” a man called out, punctuating his sentence with a low whistle, “If it ain’t _Dutch’s bitch_. Or— is that ex-bitch?”

Big Valley happened to be home to Hanging Dog Ranch which, as Arthur learned on one particularly _exciting_ outing, was a main hub for the O’Driscolls. Much like a nest of yellow jackets, folks who knew the area did their damnedest to stay away, law included. Anyone foolish enough to get too close got swarmed. Last he saw, nearly fifty men lived on the premises, each as angry and drunk as the last, with smaller groups of them sprinkled about in the nearby woods.

It seems Arthur had just settled in atop the hive; six O’Driscolls emerged from the woods, smarmy and self-assured as ever. Only one or two seemed to be actually armed, beyond measly revolvers, but that was still two too many.

Shit.

“Get lost, you bastards!” Arthur barked, hoping to scare them off with words alone. He laid a hand atop his holster, devastated to find it empty, the Schofield long since tossed aside, “Why don’t you just scurry along back to Colm?”

“Naw, see, way I figure, we’re the ones what should be giving orders here, eh?” another man cackled, leveling his shotgun at Arthur’s face.

_Shit._

“Ha! Would you look at that, boys— the bastard’s crippled! Ain’t so scary now, is you?” a third jeered, elbowing the man to his right. He prodded Arthur’s left arm with his foot, knowing the man wasn’t about to retaliate with a shotgun at his throat, “We do that to you, huh? How bout we make it up to you— we heard your _daddy’s_ out looking for you right now. Ain’t got no idea what you coulda done to fall from his good graces, but whatever it is you’re welcome to come join _us_. Colm’s always looking for new talent, and he’s been _dying_ to see you again.”

They burst into laughter. A chill washed through him, undercut by something else. Arthur fought the icy flood of memories that surfaced at their taunts.

Arthur’s heart stuttered. They knew he was alone. They knew Dutch was looking for him— which meant Dutch really _was_ looking for him. They knew Dutch wouldn’t lift a damn finger if they killed him. Nobody would. His body would rot where he fell, if he was lucky, picked apart by scavengers and scattered across the state, and nobody would think twice about it. Dutch would assume he'd slipped away, ducked the clutches of the gang and fled to greener pastures. He'd stop looking eventually, but his anger would only fester as years went on. Hamish would assume Arthur had tucked tail and run, having taken advantage of his hospitality without a single word of thanks. 

And nobody would care to give it a single thought beyond that.

“C’mon you lazy _shites_ , let’s just kill him and be done with it!”

_Shit!_

Arthur snatched his knife from the dirt, burying it in the stomach of the O’Driscoll with the shotgun. The angle was awkward but effective; he went down, lamely clutching at his gut. Arthur tackled the next O’Driscoll in much the same way, cutting him from ear to ear. Skin split beneath his blade like overripe dough.

Arthur dove for his discarded Schofield as the remaining four got their wits about them, finally thinking to fight back. Odessa kicked one in the head, downing him for good before she scurried off to safety. 

One, two, three, four, five shots sunk into one O’Driscoll’s chest. The next took a bullet to the liver.

Fury seeped in through Arthur’s skin. Resentment. Wrath.

He tossed his empty gun aside and threw himself at the gutshot O’Driscoll.Bone gave way under his knuckles. Skin tore. Teeth dislodged. His shoulder throbbed and ripped but he couldn’t feel it.

Arthur felt as though something inside him had shattered like the long-stemmed wine glasses Dutch used to insist on carting with them wherever they went until, inevitably, they all broke. Whatever it was was fragile and useless.

Again, and again, and again, and again, he drove his fist into the man’s face.

And again.

And again.

_And again._

When Arthur was done, when he had thoroughly exhausted himself, the man was little more than pulp. Unrecognizable as a man, much less as an O’Driscoll. Speckles of blood and bone added to the smattering of freckles on Arthur’s cheeks.

The first of the O'Driscoll, still failing to stem the bleeding from the knife wound Arthur had carved into his stomach, looked on in horror.

“J-Jesus…” his eyes were wide and childlike; swarming with fear as he scrabbled backwards— and Arthur loved it. “Jesus, f-fuck…”

The man whimpered— honest to god _whimpered_ — as Arthur’s predatory gaze fell on him.

He limped over to Odessa, less concerned with the pile of bodies than the trembling in his hand and the way it didn’t come clean even when he wiped it on his pants again, and again, and again.

The sheer, potent rage that had fractured open in his chest was still there; as adrenaline slowly wormed its way out of his system, the anger remained.

Anger at the O’Driscoll’s; first for taking his arm, then for trying to kick him while he was down, literally and figuratively.

Anger at Dutch.

Anger at himself.

But in that anger was freedom. Undoubtedly a strange sort, but there nonetheless.

He used to, when he was younger, get swept up in that anger, that exhilaration, just like his pa did. Try as he might to push the memories from his mind, they stuck fast, always lurking just beneath the surface. Today, though, they bubbled and frothed; alive again as they hadn’t been in _years_.

Just like his pa, Arthur liked to hurt people.

It holdover, perhaps, from days spent on the streets, literally fighting to stay alive. Maybe it was genetic, the remnants of his father mocking him even in death. His father was angry, too. There was one difference, though: Lyle Morgan was a coward who beat on women and children, his own included— Arthur would never lay hands on his family.

He would, however, beat the ever-loving shit out of just about anyone else. He often did, when swept in his own violent haze. He’d pick fights, sometimes for money, others for pleasure. Most times, many times, he’d damn near kill the man. Quite a few times, there wasn’t anything ‘near’ about it, though he never really stopped to check. He was partial to stranglings, but caving in a skull or two wasn’t out of the question. He drowned a handful of men in public watering troughs, leaving them shivering lumps in the mud. Killing a man, or getting damn close to it, with his bare hands was nothing like shooting or stabbing him— it was better. Worse. It was the only way to quiet the itching under his skin.

It was, though Arthur was hesitant to admit it, the very reason he started venturing away from the gang on his own, leaving during the day and returning late at night. After a while, after John showed up and he could get away with it, he’d stay out for days or weeks at a time, starting brawls, stealing what he could, and only coming home when he couldn’t carry anything else. The life he led made it easy enough to explain away busted knuckles and black eyes; hell, he came back with a broken ankle once and nobody batted an eye.

He suffered these thoughts alone, as he did so many others. Hosea and Dutch didn't know and likely never would. The only time he’d been caught, awash in a fog of wanton cruelty, Hosea and Dutch has stumbled across him unexpectedly. They were there to witness the start of the fight— when Arthur, unprovoked, launched himself at a man like a rabid dog— and the end, when they pulled Arthur off of the man who was slowly drowning in his own blood and fragmented teeth.

Arthur, who couldn’t have been more than 16 at the time, was still seething when they shouted at him, unable to see past the venom in his veins long enough to concoct a story about why, exactly, he had nearly murdered a man behind a bar. Hosea was so disappointed in him, and for weeks he and Dutch would bombard Arthur with lengthy lectures about _humanity_ and _kindness_ , about staying out of the eyes of the law, and not hurting others without reason.

They figured between that and the labor-intensive chores they forced upon him, they had curtailed Arthur's bloodlust; cured whatever temporary madness had come over him. They got better at talking to the boy, at giving him positive and productive ways to express his emotions.

 _Arthur_ got better at hiding his fights and was never caught again; at the very least, if they noticed, nobody ever said a word about it. He _did_ calm down eventually; able to hold his temper a little better, able to pick his fights a little smarter, but he could feel it, always there beneath his skin, sitting at the bottom of his lungs, waiting. That anger. That sticky, vile thing. He’d kept it pushed down for years, satisfying it with the occasional drunken brawl or an order from Dutch, disguising it as duty and justice. He wondered what Dutch would think; the man had always been fond of Arthur’s proclivity towards violence, but only when it suited him.

 _“It was him or me,”_ Arthur learned to say, just like his pa would, the next time someone caught the slightest glimpse of his violent nature.

Every time, they would nod and agree.

They heard an expression of survival, vulnerability: _if I didn’t put him down, if I didn’t hit him harder, he would have killed me._

Arthur, whether he knew it or not, meant it as: _if I didn’t hurt him, I would have hurt myself_.

Those thoughts were part of it, too. Of course they were. That _thing_ inside of him didn’t discriminate between him and others. Just as readily as Arthur would hurt other people, he was willing with equal enthusiasm to hurt himself.

But he’d gotten _better,_ he thought, he wasn’t like that any more. He didn’t hate people so much, he wasn’t so angry all the time, he was a different man now.

The blood cooling on his skin thought different.

Just like his pa, he thought bitterly. 

And yet his mind was clearer now than it had been in days. He could finally breathe.

They didn’t stop again until the next evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quietly eyes a list of alcohol withdrawal symptoms* 
> 
> Arthur’s got quite a nasty temper on him. In case I haven’t been painfully obvious about it, the way this particular iteration of Arthur’s backstory goes that he kind of went feral while living out on the streets and Dutch and Hosea swooped in to put him back together. His daddy fucked him all the way up.
> 
> And yes, Arthur’s freckles are canon and I love them ♡
> 
> Little fun fact, I was making cinnamon rolls while I wrote this and got so distracted that I nearly burnt them. The things I do for you guys ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
> I'll see you all on Tuesday with the long-awaited answer to the age old question: "What the *fuck*, Dutch?!" 'Til then, be good! ♡


	16. II. II

They couldn't find him. 

They had looked everywhere they could think in any spare minute they could find. After all, the camp was still in dire straits, and people needed to be fed. By now, they’d scoured every town from Valentine to Annesburg, they had checked saloons, clinics, hotels, jail cells... everywhere Arthur could have gone without leaving a trace. As days drew on, the gang grew restless and desperate; John went out _five_ times in one day, claiming to have gone hunting. To his credit, he returned with game each time, and each time was coated in a new color of dirt.

“He ain’t in the swamps,” he muttered, angry and exhausted, when the swamps had grown too dark to search any longer.

Later, Sean would drink and ramble on and on about how _of course Arthur wasn’t in the swamps, he hates those nasty gator things, and more importantly, he had already_ _checked_ _the swamps twice and people really ought to listen to him more._

Charles had left for the mountains of Ambarino days ago, recalling a conversation he had with Arthur about a small hunting cabin in an area teeming with elk and deer; a place he could go to, in Arthur’s words, _“take a goddamned breath_ ”. That, of course, had been the whole of the conversation, but he was happy to set after that lead anyways like a hound on a rabbit.

He hadn’t returned yet, and each passing hour only worsened the nerves around camp.

Those who found the time to started speculating, wondering if maybe Arthur had simply kept on going; perhaps Arthur had continued East, or gone North into Canada. Maybe he was hiding in a secret cave, or had taken up a new identity in Saint Denis. He could've snuck aboard a ship and gone wherever it took him. Karen suggested once, that maybe he was just dead. She was quickly hushed by the others, but they checked the morgues and warily eyed circling scavengers anyways. 

They tried, and failed, to recall every conversation they’d ever had with the man, thinking maybe he’d offered a clue and they just hadn’t thought of it yet. Others didn’t talk about Arthur at all, fuming with anger and preferring to ignore the tension in camp altogether. 

Quieter, they whispered amongst themselves about Dutch, who hadn’t been seen in the days since starting their search. When Tilly asked Hosea about their leader’s disappearance, he had no answer to offer. The look on his face ensured that nobody asked again.

And now Hosea cautiously approached Arthur’s tent, warily eying Dutch who sat on the abandoned cot, illuminated by lantern light. The man had taken up residence there before that morning and seemingly hadn't moved since. It was the first they'd seen of him— despite that, folks had given him a wide berth, opting to slink around the edges of camp, casting wide-eyed, unsettled glances at Hosea everytime they passed by. Hosea's reassurances had run out by noon. By nightfall, as the camp fell quiet one by one, Hosea's concern had only fevered until he could bear it no longer. 

He approached the man as he would a wild horse, worried he might spook and run off once again. 

"You're starting to make people nervous—" he paused, eying the havok Dutch had created. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his fingers smudged with black and gray. Arthur’s journal sat in his lap, wide open, bookmarked with several pieces of paper, each full of notes. Pages were strewn about every surface in the tent, some clearly torn from the journal, others handwritten by Dutch himself. The man looked wild; unkempt, untamed— like a man barely there. Barely Dutch.

“... Oh, Dutch, what have you done?”

Dutch bristled, carrying in him such a darkness that his foul mood was palpable. Strangely, unsettlingly, he didn’t make eye contact with Hosea; there was no confident grin, no well-rehearsed speech. Hosea hadn’t see him like this in years. Dangerous. Roiling. Frenzied. He could only imagine the tempest of saturnine thoughts that surely churned just below the surface.

 _“Did you know?_ ”

His voice was cold. Flat. 

“Did I know what, friend?”

With a grimace, Dutch handed Hosea Arthur’s journal, the papers cracking in his hand as he shoved an open page into Hosea’s chest. Hosea locked eyes with Dutch for a moment before frowning and reading what of the smeared, faded words he could. He flipped to the next marked page, and the next, the nausea in his gut growing worse as he did. When he could bear no more, he closed the book, but still held it tight.

“Did you know that Arthur was thinking these… these _thoughts_?” he spat the word as if it were foul and bitter; as if it were a vile curse. His face was buried in his hands, and yet the anger seeped through his fingers anyways.

“... A bit,” Hosea sighed, a shiver running down his spine. He let his eyes fall closed. He couldn't bear to see Dutch like this, “We… talk, he and I, and he brought it up… I never thought it was as serious as… as…”

“You should’ve— You could’ve— _I_ should have known.”

“I’m sorry, Dutch. I didn’t think it was my place to tell you. Honestly, I didn’t think there was anything to tell… Youthful thinking, that’s all.. but… if I had known it was like _this_ … that he still... I…”

The pair sat in silence for a moment, Hosea with his hand wrapped into Dutch's and Dutch trying to gather his runaway thoughts. Subtly, Hosea set Arthur’s journal aside, away from Dutch’s shaking, desperate grasp.

“He left it all here,” Dutch breathed, barely anything more than a whisper, “Everything… Everything we… Copper, Bo’s shoe, the— Jesus, Hosea, he left the portrait behind. I don’t… I mean, shit, he left his _journal_ right out in the open, that can’t…”

Hosea’s eyes widened as he studied Arthur’s collection, left in place despite the chaos that had swept through the room. Though it took him a moment, he realized that not _everything_ was there. Arthur’s mother was gone, as well as that flower he protected so fiercely. Everything else— all of the reminders, the memories of the past twenty years— was left in place.

“He left this, too,” Dutch blankly handed Hosea the worn picture of Arthur’s father, a mugshot from all those years ago.

Hosea winced.

“I’m sure it’s a coincidence, Dutch.”

He _wasn’t_ sure. If it were anyone else, the significance of abandoning these _particular_ relics was frankly _blindingly_ obvious. He’s leaving _them_ behind, those dark, fermenting feelings towards Dutch from all those years ago once again awakened.

“It’s all my fault, Hosea,” Dutch admitted after a moment, barely heard over his own rapid breath, “All of this… A-and he thought I would… God, the things I said to him… He damn near died, and for _what_? We are no better off than we were before, if anything we’re…”Dutch buried his face into his palms, yet again trying to keep the tremble in his shoulders out of his voice, “Years of living with that kind of… rage, and hate, and shame, and— and—“

Dutch's chest thundered. His breath came quick and deep; wrong. He choked on whatever words came next. Worthlessness. Fear. A thousand other, worse things that it seemed Dutch hadn’t seen until it was literally spelled out for him. What else might lurk beneath the surface? What else hadn’t Arthur told him? No wonder the boy was so eager to leave camp all the time. He lived a life beyond this one that it seems he much preferred.

It was enough to make him wish he’d never read that damn journal in the first place.

"Dutch— "

His pulse quickened to an unbearable thrum. Sickness soured in his throat. His hands curled into tight fists, each fingernail leaving a bright red half-moon on his palm. 

“Breathe, Dutch.”

Hosea's weight pressed against him— a hand on his heaving back, rubbing small circles; soothing, or at least trying to be, and a hand his breast to steady him. To quiet him. A practiced motion, one they'd repeated hundreds of times in the years gone by. 

"Come on, deep breath, you're okay." 

He swallowed thickly, finding it very hard to breathe despite Hosea’s insistence, “ _I_ put those things there. I put them there and didn’t give him any way to deal with it besides shoving it deeper. I fucked up, Hosea. And I’m afraid I have no idea how to stop fucking up.”

“We have to find him and talk this out like adults. You boys ain’t kids anymore,” Hosea said gently, hands still firmly set upon Dutch's trembling frame.

Dutch chuckled, dry and hardly human. He leaned to rest against Hosea, “You were a kid then too, more or less. If not in age, then definitely in temperament.”

“We’ve all grown since then, ain’t my fault I’m the only one who matured. Now then, you show me what you’ve found and I’ll see if I can help. Unlike you, _I’ve_ slept in the past week,” Hosea clapped him on the back hard, forcing a smile onto his face. He handed Dutch the journal once again, almost hating to see it violated any more than it already had been.

“Well,” Dutch drew a steadying breath, relishing the feeling of filled lungs, “I have scoured this journal front to back, looking for any kind of sign of some one-legged man, or-or an escape plan, a course of action, something— anything—Only thing that fits the bill is this.”

Dutch pulled apart two pages; one had ripped terribly, stuck to the page before, but it was obviously a portrait of a man sitting at a table. His face had been torn away. Upon closer inspection, Hosea could see that, sure enough, the man was missing most of a leg, a prosthetic leaning against the wall nearby, delicately detailed. Beside the drawing was scrawled the name ‘Hamish’.

“Might not even be the _right_ one-legged man, and he didn't leave anything about a— a location... There's plenty of pages missing, too. My guess he ripped them out, like he knew we'd be looking—”

Hosea furrowed his brows, leaning in to the journal for a closer look. Something about the page, the left filled with the one-legged man and the right with various sketches of birds, rocks, and animals unsettled him, but he couldn’t quite place what.

“Hang on,” he mumbled, tracing a rock formation with his finger. Damn his old age; his mind worked far too slowly for his own good these days.

He recognized the rocks; a set of boulders with two trees sprouting out of them, sat in the middle of a lake; an island of stone. It was a vague memory at best, one he worked to piece together until, finally, it hit him. 

“Hey, hey I know this place,” he beamed, elbowing Dutch, “Saw these same rocks with Arthur when we went after that bear, just after Colter. That’s— ” Hosea snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name despite how desperately it evaded him, “ _O’Creagh’s Run_ , I’m sure of it!”

Dutch lifted his head, eyes wide, panic replaced by the earliest vestiges of hope.

“You’re _sure_?” he asked, studying the rocks himself as if he, too, might recognize them, “That’s…”

“We saw some real monsters in the water there, said we’d have to come back to fish a bit when we had time... If I recall correctly, there was an old cabin on the shore, only place around for miles. I’m willing to bet a one-legged man lives there. It's north, up in the Grizzlies.”

“... ain’t Charles up north right now, scouring the mountains for some hunting cabin?“

“Could be he’s looking in the wrong place. What are we waiting for then? Mount up! Let’s go get our boy.”

Dutch pushed to his feet, flashing a fond, though tired, smile, “The curious couple rides again?”

“Just like old times, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, lovelies ♡
> 
> Dutch is feeling a certain kind of way about things. Lots of emotions, and thinly veiled mental illness. I fully support the idea that Hosea has grown so used to dealing with Arthur and Dutch's various issues that he's kind of become an old pro. He loves his boys ♡
> 
> Let me know what y'all think about this one... I'll see you on Thursday! ♡♡♡


	17. II. III

O’Creagh’s Run was more than a day’s ride, and every minute of it was spent awash in growing anxiety. Hosea, bless him, had picked up on Dutch’s fragility, and he was a little more gentle with the man than he ought to be, soothing him with stories of the past.

Ah, but how he _wanted_ to shout. It was something he had to grow used to over these long years; as much as the words welled inside him and screams bit at his tongue, Hosea had learned to keep his temper. He had to, with Dutch being more vulnerable than he let on and Arthur flinching at every stray word, even twenty years after the cause of his misery was put in the ground. Hosea kept calm, for now; he could see that Dutch, at least in some small way, was beginning to understand the magnitude of his mistakes.

And that was enough.

Dutch, on the other hand, was for once very quiet. The moment they left camp he clammed up tight, barely offering half a sentence to Hosea over the course of their journey. He was slightly more talkative when they’d set camp and made dinner, but only slightly, and the hush had returned by morning. Even now, as they rounded the lake and the cabin popped up on the horizon, Dutch was silent.

Honestly, it was a little unnerving.

“I’ll handle it,” Dutch said as they drew in closer, the first words he had spoken in hours.

The horse hitched outside, it's hide a pale gold that made Dutch slightly envious, snorted and stomped his hooves angrily as they dismounted. Both men eyed the beast warily as he tossed his head, eyes wild, rearing as far as he could manage on his tether. They wove a wide circle around him, not keen on getting kicked by something so gargantuan and foul-tempered. Arthur’s horse wasn’t here, which didn’t bode well for their chances at finding the man himself, but there were plenty of hoof prints stomped into the dirt. He couldn’t say for certain whether they belonged to Odessa or the behemoth currently pitching a fit behind them. Dutch curled his hands into fists so tight his fingernails impressed bright-red half-moons into his palm.

With a steadying breath, and his heart pounding in his throat, Dutch knocked.

A man emerged, face twisted into something stern and foreboding, leveling a gun right between Dutch’s eyes.

“You got two seconds to get the hell off my property.”

His voice was a low growl, one that sent a chill up Dutch’s spine. Even Hosea lost his charlatan smile, stock still and starting wide-eyed at the man.

The man and his false leg. Judging by the look Dutch had given him, uneasily cast over his shoulder, Hosea wasn’t the only one to notice.

“Excuse me! Sorry to bother you, but I’m, uh looking for someone,” Dutch’s voice cracked. The man looked him up and down, slowly, his confusion hardening into anger. A bead of sweat rolled down Dutch's cheek, but he continued with his usual put-upon confidence, “He’s wandered off, I was wondering if you’d seen him... he’s about yea-high, broad shoulders, honey-blonde, scar on his chin. His name is Arthur, rides a big ol Warmblood; you seen anyone like that around?”

“Nope,” the man said all too quickly, setting off alarm bells in Dutch’s head, “Now get the hell out of here.”

He turned to leave; to slam the door. Hosea furrowed his brows, shouting after him: “You _are_ Hamish, aren’t you?“

“No,” the man sneered, shooting them a glare, seemingly a mere second away from doing away with threats altogether and _actually_ shooting them, “Got the wrong feller.” As he tried again to close the door, Dutch jammed his foot in the way. Again, he found himself staring down the barrel of a particularly nasty looking gun.

“Please, sir,” Dutch wore his best look of grief and despair, though for once he didn’t have to dig too deep to find it, “He’s our son, we’re just— we're worried about him.”

At this, Hamish froze, shoulders tense. Even Buell, for all the horse could know of the situation, reared back and kicked out, hoof barely missing Hosea.

“… Your _son_?” Hamish asked, and Dutch could feel the barely concealed rage hidden in his words, though he certainly couldn’t understand it. For a moment, Hamish simply stared. “Well, I guess that makes you Dutch, now don’t it?”

Hamish spat his name as if it were rotten; such venom in his voice it set Dutch’s nerves aflame. Hosea’s hand fell to his sidearm and he carefully watched the interaction. Some small part of him wished they’d brought more muscle along.

“Pardon?” Dutch’s hand hovered over his Schofield.

For a moment, Hamish's face fell flat, the disgust he was worn abandoned for something more... accepting, perhaps. Understanding. He nodded quietly to himself, and slung the gun over his shoulder in favor of driving his fist into Dutch’s cheekbone.

The look of surprise on Dutch’s face as he fell backwards off the small stoop, landing on his ass in the dirt, would have been comical if not for the one-legged man currently bearing down on him like a cantankerous grizzly bear.

“ _Fuck_ —“ Dutch spat, scrabbling backwards, trying to soothe his surely bruised cheek, “Goddamned _son of a bitch_ —“

“Whoa, now…” Hosea finally stepped in, maneuvering himself between Hamish and Dutch, offering a disarming smile. He held out a hand, half in surrender and half as a placating gesture. “Gentlemen, let’s not be hasty…”

Hamish ignored his pleas; Hosea might as well have not been there at all. He shoved past, and wrapped his fingers tight into Dutch’s collar, and struck him once more. Hamish’s eyes brimmed with repulsion and loathing. Again, he pulled his fist back, surely aiming to break every bone in Dutch’s face.

Dutch merely stared up at him, eyes wide. For once, he was speechless and certain his death was imminent.

“ _What the hell did you do to that boy?_ You low-life slimy bastard, that Arthur is a damn good man yet the shit you put him through—“ Hamish roared, and Buell bristled at the sound, digging his hoof into the dirt and pulling to free himself from the rope that bound him, no doubt intent on stomping the intruders into a fine paste. “You goddamned _animal_ , you got any idea the sort of state that boy is in — do you have any idea the kind of _scars_ that he’s got?”

Hosea half-drew his gun, but Dutch subtly waved him off, a silent plea to not make things any worse than they were. He spat blood into the grass.

“I-I am well aware, he’s hurt, and he’s hurting and I— I have to find him, I have to set things right,” Dutch raised a hand in surrender, keeping his voice steady and calm; like a pebble in a goddamned hurricane. Even he couldn’t disguise the tremble in his voice, nor keep pain from edging into his words.

“Oh, you _miserable fucking coward_ —“ he shook Dutch, both hands now buried in the man’s shirt. Hamish was damn near foaming at the mouth, “It ain’t just _now_. It ain’t just _this_! You have _any_ idea how many times he’s come to me all kinds of messed up? Hurt, or sick, _or worse?_ You done broke that kid down, and _now_ you’re tryin to find him to break him some _more?_ He _told_ me what you did to his daddy, told me what you did to _him_. And now— _oh, now you’re trying to_ — If you think I’m about to sit back and watch you put hands on him again, you’re about as dumb as you look. He’s gone through _hell_ for you, and you return the favor by running him down _like a goddamned dog_?! You best get the _hell_ off of my damn property ‘fore I bury you under it. Only reason— _the only one_ — you ain't dead yet is so you can run back and tell _all_ your fucking degenerate friends to leave Arthur be, or I swear to _God_ there will be hell to pay.”

Hamish hauled Dutch to his feet, shoving him back a few steps. He aimed the gun at Dutch once more, red in the face. Lord, the man was absolutely fuming.

Dutch pushed Hosea behind him. If looks could kill, Hamish might have done in half the state with the way he was glaring at Dutch. Now, Dutch was a quick draw, but even he couldn’t out-pull a man who already had his finger on the trigger. Maybe he even knew better than to try.

“Sir, I’m sure there’s been some kind of misunderstanding!” Hosea pleaded, hands raised in surrender, “We’re looking to make things right with him, we aren’t— nobody’s gonna hurt him.”

Dutch swallowed thickly against the grief that swelled in his chest; he felt Hosea’s hand rest softly on his back, a reassurance, if only barely. Hamish took another step forward; though his glare swept from Hosea to Dutch and back again, only Dutch met the end of the repeater in his hands.

“The only _misunderstanding_ is you thinkin I won’t kill you where you stand— you think I’m some kind of gullible fool? I heard every word of what that _limp-dicked bastard_ said, and believe me, if I ever see _him_ again he won’t even make it off his horse. Now, I am _done_ bein’ cordial!”

Hamish pulled the trigger, lodging a round in the dirt between Dutch’s feet, “Get the fuck out of here! You so much as lay _eyes_ on that kid again I will fucking _end_ _you_ and that mangy pack of vagrants you cower behind, you can count on that.”

Dutch took a hesitant step back, pushing Hosea along with him.

“We are _sorry_ for intruding,” he said carefully, eyes locked onto Hamish’s gun.

With that, Dutch and Hosea got back on their horses, taking off east. Hamish slunk back into his house as soon as they had gone, tossing Buell a peppermint with a tight frown. Maybe he should have just shot them both and been done with it.

They sat in silence as they wound through the woods, their only lead having driven them off. Granted, Hamish had more or less admitted that Arthur was, in fact, there at some point. Whether he was still there, or if he would ever return, they didn’t know.

A step forward, it seems, that led them nowhere.

Dutch pulled The Count to a stop, face twisted in thought. Hosea could damn near see the wheels turning in his head.

“What’re you thinking, Dutch?” he asked, surprisingly exhausted by their encounter with Hamish. He’d truly expected Arthur to be there. He’d wanted Arthur to be there.

“… You see that gun?” Dutch asked quietly, eyes transfixed back towards Hamish’s homestead. Hosea furrowed his brows.

“Saw how he was about a second away from shoving it down your throat, sure.”

Dutch held a steely look in his eyes, one that made Hosea’s heart ache, “That was _Arthur’s_ gun.”

“What?”

“His Litchfield. That’s _his_ gun.”

“That boy has never let anyone so much as hold the damn thing and you’re telling me, what, he gave it away?”

“That, or that guy stole it, and from the sound of thing I sincerely doubt that is the case. Only way he’d’ve given someone that gun is if he either planned to see him again or… Or…”

“Or he didn’t think he’d ever need it.”

Dutch pursed his lips into a tight line, “What do you suppose he said? Arthur, I mean… For a man I’ve never met to _hate_ me so violently, I don’t—“

“Oh, I don’t think he _hated_ you. He’s worried about Arthur, same as us. I don’t know what Arthur might have told him, but that man was _expecting_ trouble.”

Dutch bit back a comment. He could recognize contempt when he saw it. His mind was aflame trying to think of what Arthur might have told Hamish; for a moment, he almost wanted to call off the search so he would never _have_ to know— that thought only worsened the guilt churning in his stomach. Dutch’s face darkened.

Hosea’s hand rested on Dutch’s shoulder, the only thing keeping him from spiraling any further.

“He said someone else had been there.... that they said something nasty to Arthur,” Hosea said, “What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know,” Dutch frowned, biting his lip gently, “But I picked up on that too. Seems we may not be alone in our search.”

“Pinkertons? Bounty hunters?”

“Could be. Could be O’Driscoll’s for all we know, especially considering how much hell I’ve been giving their men. It ain’t good, whoever it is.”

“I think I have an idea,” Hosea said after a moment. He pushed past the disappointment that sat on his shoulders, mind working, slow as it may be, to craft a plan.

Hosea could recognize the signs of a hunter; Hamish happened to have a collection of pelts, stretched and drying just outside of his cabin. One man can only wear so many skins, and this far away from civilization there was really only one option for selling furs. Hosea _also_ happened to know that that option frequently made camp this time of year not too far from Hamish’s cabin, only an hour or so’s ride down the Kamassa.

-:-

Dutch in tow, currently silently marinating in his own self-pity and drowning in speculation, Hosea plastered a smile over his face and cheerfully called out to the trapper. Dutch followed close behind as Hosea dismounted, warily eyeing the various vicious beasts the trapper had laid out. A fine layer of coal dust had caked just about everything in the camp. Roanoke Ridge always set him on edge anyways, but the sulfurous fumes from the mines had drifted their way on a chilly wind and Dutch wanted nothing more than to turn around and try his luck with Hamish once more.

“‘Scuse me! Sorry to interrupt, I hate to bother, but I’m looking for my boy, he seems to have wandered off and gotten himself turned around, I figure you might know him? Tall, hefty man, scar on his chin, kind of messy... likes to pretend he’s dumb, but it’s all for show... Name’s Arthur? I understand he is a frequent customer of yours.”

“Arthur?” The trapper parroted, brushing out a raccoon pelt and hardly paying attention, “Arthur _Morgan_? No customer more loyal than that Arthur, always brings me such fine specimens! 'Fraid I can’t tell you too much more than that, saw him a few days ago but he ain’t been through since.”

Hosea cast a look at Dutch, who was inspecting some of the pelts the Trapper had hung around with a palpable sense of morbid fascination. Dutch never did have the stomach for these things, and were the situation any less dire Hosea might have found it endearing.

“What happened to _him_?” the trapper asked, wincing at the swelling on Dutch’s face and the split in his lip.

Dutch shot him a venomous glare, “I suppose I learned a valuable lesson about the proper way to treat people I care about.”

“... Looks to me like you got the hell beat out of you.”

“I was just wondering if he’d ever come with anyone," Hosea cut in once more, "Maybe a guy called Hamish? See, that’s my brother-in-law— the pair of them went hunting days ago, and I haven’t heard since. Looked all over where they said they’d be, and they ain’t there. I’m getting a bit nervous.”

The trapped stopped his work, a genuine look of sadness washing over his features. He set the raccoon aside, leaning on his hands towards Hosea, finally hooked on the story he had told.

“... didn’t know Hamish had family. Figures those two would be kin. A fine pair they are,” the trapped mused, “Came to me once with three cougars, each mint condition. Don’t see many of those— folks’re usually too slow to see those big cats, and when they do, they fill em full of lead. Nasty things. Earned themselves some scars for that one, but well worth it— I ain’t see em too often, but I been in Saint Denis ’til a week and a half ago. Gator season, figured my services would be in high demand. They came to visit a few days back. Used to be they’d come by a couple days in a row with trophies, and I come to expect more from them than a boar and a couple’a wolves, but I suppose I can’t complain. Looked to me like they’d had a hell of a time getting em. Ah… Could be they headed west already. Odd time for it, but what do I know?”

At this, Dutch’s attention snapped to the trapper, brows furrowed. He pushed in front of Hosea, laying his hands on the roughly hewn wooden counter.

“West?”

“Aye, sure, I got a place I set up down around the south of Tall Trees. Beautiful bison that way. My guess is Hamish spends his winters there when the chill is bad. Course, me? I don’t too much mind the cold, the heat is what gets me, so I ain’t down there more than once or twice a year, but I try to make it down when he’s there. He makes it more than worth my while, saves up his pelts so he don’t have to make more than one trip. Does a lot of the work for me that way, but I pay him a bit more for his trouble.”

Dutch gripped Hosea’s arm tight. Hosea could see the way Dutch’s eyes lit up.

“Any idea where he stays?” Hosea asked, maybe a little too quickly for his own good, “I stopped by his place on O’Creagh’s run and he weren’t there, I do worry... I wouldn’t wonder if perhaps he set off there early this year and didn’t think to mention it. We’ve been estranged, see, fifteen or so years, since my sister died, God rest her soul. Only just came back together, see, and I ain’t privy to all the man’s happenings yet.”

“Best I can tell, he’s got someplace down south, not far from the river… West Elizabeth, maybe? Got some real good hunting that way. Like I said, I don’t go much farther than Tall Trees. They were here just a few days back, didn’t mention taking a trip, but they weren’t talking too much about anything. Them boys aren’t my most predictable customers. Could be they’re going for bighorns, it's a good year for it. I hear there's a giant herd of ‘em come up from Mexico, some of these rams got three or four curls in their horns, if you’d believe it. Ain’t seen nothin like it yet, so I couldn’t say for sure if it’s true, but it seems worth a look. I just hope if they do make their way down that they bring something nice back up this way.”

“Thank you for your help,” Dutch said, eyes alight with hope as he pulled Hosea away, “When we see him, we’ll tell him to bring you somethin’ real nice, next time he comes around.”

Dutch grabbed Hosea’s shoulder, steering him back to their horses with a newly lit fire in him. They had a lead. More than a lead; a trail. The pair headed back to camp, pushing their horses harder than they had in a long while.

West.

Of _course_ it would be west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said Dutch deserved the ass beating of a lifetime? 
> 
> My boy Hamish is ride or die, y’all ♡ And in case it wasn’t painfully obvious, the *only* reason Hamish didn’t kill Dutch and Hosea on the spot is because he knew that Arthur still loved them. Specifically Dutch, who Hamish would have happily turned into glue if Arthur weren’t still smitten with the guy. 
> 
> And I know, I know, Trapper ex machine for *sure*. I adore the trapper ♡ he’s always so friendly and welcoming. Of course, using the trapper comes with a problem of its own: it’s the same guy in every location, seemingly all at once. My fix? He moves around a lot, follows the various hunting seasons for the most part, and gives a rough schedule to repeat customers. Hosea, being a somewhat-avid hunter, would know that schedule like the back of his hand. 
> 
> (♡ These boys have one brain cell between them and its Hosea’s ♡)
> 
> Also! Anyone wondering why Dutch wouldn’t have killed Hamish: my man is distraught and, more than that, feeling guilty. Much like his darling son, he’ll happily take a beating if he thinks that’s what he deserves. 
> 
> Ah, and I’ve noticed a few of you are reading my updates first thing in the morning— so if that’s you, GOOD MORNING!! ♡ I hope you have a WONDERFUL day! And if it isn’t you, well, you can save that good morning for tomorrow ♡♡♡


	18. II. III

Arthur sputtered awake with a cry, shooting upright out of his bedroll. Tears stuck to his cheeks; his mouth was dry. His shoulder gnawed at him, a throbbing, tortuous mess.

All he could do was breathe. Deep, quick breaths, to quiet the thundering in his ribs. His entire body thrummed with adrenaline as he recalled, over and over, ever detail of that vicious nightmare. Arthur’s fingers dug into his shirt, intent on burrowing into his heart to keep it from erupting.

_Goddamnit._

He’d managed to stave off that _particular_ nightmare for weeks; he’d suffered at the hands of that specter in the precious few moments of sleep he’d found during his capture. After his return, his mind was full of Colm O’Driscoll. He supposed, briefly, it was a welcome change; a divergence from the monotonous nightmares he’d grown so used to over the years. It didn’t mean he hated it any less.

Sure enough, slowly, Colm’s face twisted and broke until one night it wasn’t _Colm_ torturing him any more.

Strange how after over twenty years, he could still remember his father’s voice so clearly. Damn it, he could even remember how he smelled, like cheap liquor and brick dust. Sour.He could still recall the way his eyes bore into him, only ever turning on him just before he—

before he—

before—

before.

Arthur pushed those thoughts far, far down, swallowing them back like sick. 

He’d found shelter in a shack; he guessed it used to be a farm of some kind, given the fences he’d nearly driven Odessa into in the dead of night, but thankfully it had long been abandoned. It reminded him, in some odd way, of the places he used to stay with Dutch and Hosea, before Dutch got a bounty on his head and they had the law on their heels. Back then, when the weather was too foul for camping and they couldn’t afford a hotel, they’d hole up in a place like this for weeks or months at at time, truly making it feel like a little home. Bessie would bake something sweet, Annabelle would offer up a song and spin around the room with Arthur, and they’d spend the first night dancing and joking and telling stories by the light of the lantern.

This was far from that, barely four walls and a roof that threatened to come down at any moment. There was no whispered conversation, no roaring fire, no rumble of laughter, no warmth. Just a run down shack in an empty field of rocks.

Just Arthur.

He felt fit to vomit, but had nothing to give. He hadn’t eaten much in days; snacking on crackers every now and then, and eating berries when he found them, but game had become scarce as he fled south, but he’d never quite found time to devote to hunting after his failure in Big Valley anyways.

With a shaky breath, he checked his watch. Twelve past four in the morning. His hand trembled; fear, exhaustion, or hunger, Arthur wasn’t sure.

Arthur swallowed dryly; he’d have to restock. He couldn’t carry on into the desert with an empty satchel; to even consider such a thing was a death sentence. He could backtrack through Tall Trees and back to Strawberry, potentially right into the waiting clutches of the Van der Lindes, or he could risk his neck and go to Blackwater, banking on the idea that maybe, just maybe, with his arm in a sling and his face bruised and gaunt, they might not recognize him—at least long enough to sneak in, get what he needed, and escape.

Arthur stepped into the early morning light, deep blue over the horizon. He pulled a deep breath of the dry, cool air, and something inside him shifted. If he closed his eyes and tried _real_ hard, he could imagine this old, rundown ranch was his. That instead of rocks there were horses. Instead of tumbleweeds there were crops. Instead of ‘ _him_ ’, it was ‘ _them’_.

A smile crept across his face, small and burdened, but there. He worried still; crossing the river hadn’t saved him, and surely the Van der Lindes would dot the horizon any day now. They would hesitate, though; this side of the river was still off-limits, ripe with law and vicious bounty hunters. That hesitation might save be his saving grace.

Beneath that, though, exhilaration. Beyond the worry and pain, a breathless kind of joy. Freedom.

Lonely, terrifying freedom.

He could feel it bloom; a selfish type of freedom he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Despite himself, a foolish grin swept across his features. For once, he didn’t have to worry about others. Others finding him, sure, but not others wellbeing.

But because they hadn’t found him yet— because he wasn’t dead _yet_ — this bloom was allowed to grow.

For the first time in over twenty years, despite all of Dutch’s bluster, he felt truly, honestly _free_ , loosed from the burdens of camp. He no longer had lives depending on him, nor a gaggle of eager eyes dying to know his whereabouts. He had nowhere to be, no looming plans to return in time for, no life-or-death decisions for anyone but himself. And they were his decisions— whether he wanted to live, or he wanted to die— because nobody else would suffer for either choice.

Things could be worse. He was alive. His father was dead. Things could be worse.

As the sun burned higher over West Elizabeth, Arthur grabbed Odessa, pulled his hat down low, and headed south.

The road stretched onwards before him, but he didn’t follow it. Instead, Arthur picked his way across the hills. Bounty hunters watched the roads, often camping in the space where roads crossed and intersected. He had never much minded the dusty terrain of south-of-the-river West Elizabeth; in fact, until everything went to shit, he looked upon their time in Blackwater fondly. He much preferred trees and dappled shade, but would happily choose the vast, empty desert over an urbanized forest any day.

Odessa tossed her head unhappily; she, too, must be starving and exhausted, but Arthur kept his cautious pace. If he moved too quickly, he’d have the keen eyes of the law on him in a second. Too slow and he was an easy target.

The plains were empty, though. At least, from his place cresting a hill and sat high atop the back of as gargantuan a beast as Odessa, he couldn’t see hide nor hair of any bounty hunters, Pinkertons, or lawmen. He did spy camps dotted along the cliffside that were probably law of some sort, but they seemed sparsely populated and sluggish.

Arthur pursed his lips. Blackwater slowly came into view.

He paused.

Arthur ran his hand over his cheeks; his beard had grown scruffy and long; longer than he’d usually keep it. Between that, the weight he’d lost while recovering, the way his hair now fell in greasy curls around his neck, and the apparent lack of an arm, it was unlikely at best that he’d be recognized. Unlike Hosea and Dutch, none of the scouts who had turned eyes on Blackwater after their escape had mentioned seeing Arthur’s face plastered all over the city. Certainly the posters were there, but not nearly in the same overwhelming number.

And yet he still felt a welling anxiety.

Get in, get stocked, get out. Simple at that. The general store was, unfortunately, tucked away near the heart of the city, but he could make do. He could survive.

Arthur clicked his tongue, setting Odessa forward into Blackwater.

The streets were bustling, just as they had been when he was here last. Construction had continued. People chatted and went about their day as if this place hadn’t been the beginning of the end. As if, not less than four months ago, he hadn’t personally seen to it that damn near every family in Blackwater lost a son that day.

As if Mac, Davey, and Jenny, hadn’t as well as died on these cobblestone streets, now full of life once again. As if this city hadn’t torn apart his family. He opted to walk, leading Odessa alongside him.

When Arthur hazarded a glance upwards, he saw the shredded remnants of Dutch’s face plastered on walls, posts, and windows, the bounty posters long since weathered and forgotten, but not the ranks of cops he’d seen with Javier and Charles. There were no men in suits, hardly any tin stars, no scarred mugs of bounty hunters. Just… people. Lawmen, yes, but not more than one would expect from a city like Blackwater. Fewer, even, with the damage he had done to their ranks. Even with the brim of his hat pulled low over his face, and his gaze cast down into the cracks of the road, he could tell that much.

If he didn’t know any better, he might think Blackwater had forgotten them. 

Arthur ducked into the general store, quickly filling his arms with the bare necessities.The shopkeeper, far too focused on his magazine, didn’t so much look up when he entered. If Arthur took advantage and slipped a few things into his bag, who could say.

“Just these,” he lied, placing his items on the counter, “Thanks.”

Finally, the shopkeep looked up, and his face flashed with anger.

“Hey, hey, hey— _Get the fuck out of here!_ ” he slammed his hands on the counter, “We don’t serve _your_ kind.”

“ _My_ _kind_? Can’t say I quite like your tone there, partner.”

“The sheriff already done throw you boys out once, you think you can just waltz on in here like you ain’t done what you did?”

A cold sweat ran down Arthur’s spine.

“I don’t know what in the hell you’re on about, I’m just passing’ through!!”

The shopkeeper blinked at him, rage slowly leaking from his features.

“... Ain’t you a bounty hunter?”

“Not usually,” Arthur bit.

“Oh… Oh Jesus, forgive me, friend. Them boys gave us some kind of hell for weeks, ‘fore the city made ‘em leave.”

“That so?”

Arthur dug through his satchel for the handful of dollars he had on him. It was barely enough to cover his supplies, but ultimately it was enough. He thought of every penny he’d dumped into the collection box; the five hundred or so dollars he’d had in his satchel when the O'Driscoll's grabbed him now surely lost in the pockets of a corpse decaying slowly at Lone Mule Stead. He wondered if he’d ever see that kind of money again.

Now, parting with even five dollars and change felt reckless.

“Mhmm. Not a month back, whole town was fit to burst with thugs, after them Pinkertons cleared out. Couldn’t take two steps without bumping into one of ‘em. Started all kinds of trouble, believe it or not, despite being lawmen. Took over the whole damn saloon, camped outside town. _Eight_ people got killed and dozens more robbed ‘fore the mayor put an end to it, made ‘em all move along.”

“Interesting,” Arthur hummed, his heart hammering in his chest. The shopkeeper leaned onto the counter, looking Arthur up and down with hungry eyes.

“You headed out west? Not too many folks passin’ through Blackwater these days.”

“With a welcome like that? Can't imagine why.”

“New Austin?”

“Ain’t quite sure that’s your business, pal.”

The shopkeeper hummed, seemingly pleased by his answer, “It’s wild down there. Watch yourself. You have a good one, let me know if you need anythin’ else.”

Arthur’s ears buzzed as he stumbled back out into the street.

The Pinkertons were gone. The bounty hunters were gone. Nobody seemed to recognize him. They could slip back into the west, away from the hungry eyes of the Pinkertons. They could get the money, build a new life and—

Just ask quickly, he stopped himself.

He.

 _He_ could get the money, if he knew where it was.

 _He_ could go west.

There was no longer a ‘they’. There was a _him_ , and a _them_ , and that’s all.

 _He_ could use a drink.

Arthur could feel the itch under his skin; he wanted nothing more than to soothe the dull headache that had been settled behind his eyes since he left Hamish.

The saloon was bustling; not so overly packed that it set his nerves on edge, but enough that nobody particularly minded his entrance. Rowdy patrons laughed and sang. He hoped he’d go unrecognized as he slipped up to the bar, slapping down a quarter without hesitation.

Blackwater, as it was, afforded a level of protection from the hounds nipping at his heels; if he couldn’t tell the law had moved on without setting foot in town, they likely couldn’t either, and Dutch wasn’t one to rush into things like this blindly. Usually.

Arthur, drunk on anxiety and opportunity, went to get actually drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, friends!
> 
> And so Arthur makes it into Blackwater, beaten, bruised, and scruffy, but alive. That's all any of us can ever hope for, I guess.
> 
> This is a liiiiittle different from my usual notes, but I just wanted to share my excitement: this fic reached 3000 hits yesterday!! I figured I ought to thank you all for giving my silly little story a shot, whether you’ve been a weekly reader and commenter from the get-go, if you’ve only just dropped in and are trying to catch up, or if you’re just passing through ♡ You’ve all brightened my day! As always, to you lovely little lurkers out there, you’re always welcome to leave a comment just to say hi ♡ I promise I don’t bite! We could talk about your favorite lines from previous chapters!!!!
> 
> I hope you're all well ♡♡♡ And if you aren’t, I hope you feel better soon! Love you all!! ♡


	19. II. IV

“Ladies and gentlemen, listen up! Arthur’s gone. We think he’s headed west, back over the river.”

Dutch stood in front of his tent manic with determination, boiling with newfound hope. Hosea stood close at his side, but the rest of the gang had kept their distance, cautious but nevertheless eager to hear what had brought about such a dramatic shift in Dutch's mood. Their faces were tired and worn—some weathered from days of travel, all exhausted from long days of ceaseless worry. They all hungered for good news.

At his words, though, each and every one of them grew tense. A murmuration rolled through the crowd; harsh whispers and confused words spread among them. New life seemed to surge through the gang, their weariness dissolved by outrage. 

John yelped above the din: “Why in the hell would he go _there_? They’ll hang him on sight!”

“He’s as good as dead!” Bill hollered.

Dutch held his hands out before him, hoping to calm the agitated mob, "Believe me, I know. It is a strange move to say the least. We have reason to think something spooked him and he took off. Now, we can’t say for sure who or _what_ is on his tail but whatever it was that set him off, _we_ have to find him before _it_ does—” another confused rumble rippled through the gathered crowd— “so Hosea and I are headed out after him—“

At this, the gang burst into angry shouts, calling Dutch a fool in as many words. A dozen voices call out all at once, tripping over each other and collapsing into a discordant heap. Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the growing headache.

_“You show your face around that way, you’ll get killed for sure!”_

_“Your goddamned mug is plastered all over the state!”_

_“What the hell are you thinking?”_

“ _Everyone calm down_ ,” Hosea commanded. They quieted, but did not calm. “Dutch is the only one here who can track him down. Charles and Javier have been out there for days. The fact that they haven’t returned yet means it’s time to pull out the big guns… Not to mention this is _Dutch's_ fault to begin with, so he’s got to be the one to set this right."

“You ever stop to consider that maybe if Arthur’s runnin’ that hard, maybe he don’t want to be found?”

All eyes fell on Tilly, her delicate features twisted in indignation. She crossed her arms over her chest, “Ain’t _nobody_ here treated him right, you can’t expect him to stay someplace where folks don’t even want him!”

“ _Want_ him _?_ ” Dutch recoiled, positively disgusted by her words, thoughts entirely derailed by her remark, “ _Want him?_ I— don't be ridiculous, of course we want him!”

“Well, maybe _Arthur_ don’t feel that way. I heard y’all talking about him, and I know he did too!”

“Tilly, please! Arthur’s got to be hurting!” Mary-Beth placed a slender hand on Tilly's shoulder, “We owe it to him to go after him, at least to apologize!”

At this, Karen barks out a laugh, “ _Us?_ Apologize to _him?_ He’s the one who up and left!”

“We’re the ones what chased him off,” Sadie growled, "I, for one, think he was _right_ to go."

“Why does he get to up and leave?” Molly huffed with a haughty roll of her eyes, “He ain’t the _only_ one getting treated like shit round here— If we start letting folks run off, I can think of five or six others who might as well start packing!”

“Look, if the man wants to go, let him go. Could be he’s sick o’ hearing you lot bickering all the damn time,” Sean sneered, met with agreement from Bill.

Hosea tried, and failed to control the scene before him as the gang devolved into yet another bout of petty fighting. This, unfortunately, had been the norm since Arthur’s departure— it was the unremitting hunger, perhaps, or the interminable stress. When they weren’t shouting at each other, they were cold and silent. He could tell the disarray had begun to wear on everyone’s nerves. Whatever caused their malcontent, it was particularly potent today. They were unsettled in the worst kind of way. 

“If anything, we should find him just to teach him a damn _lesson_ ,” Bill shouted, already red in the face and slightly breathless, “Folks don’t just get to leave whenever they feel like it! ‘Cept for Marston, that is.” He said those last words with a punctuated glare at John, who was currently trying his damnedest not to argue with Abigail, out in the open as they were.

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean, Williamson?”

“It means we can’t all just run away from our responsibilities,” Abigail added helpfully, “This is Arthur’s _family!_ You really think it’s fine for him to disappear on us like this?”

“I think if the man wants to be gone, let him! Spare him from your goddamned _nagging_ , at least! If he’s going across that river, he damn well knows we ain’t likely to follow. It’s what I would do.”

“Least we’ll know where to find you next time…”

“Could you just—“

“Boss, I ain't so sure this is the time for you to be takin' off on some wild goose chase. Look at these people— they are clearly in need of your guidance,” Micah added, sidling closer to Dutch. The dark circles nested under his eyes from days out on the trail only punctuated the sharpness in his stare and the cloying sweetness in his tone, “Morgan—and you know I love him like a brother— is a _liability!_ For all we know, he's already squealed, and we could have the law here tomorrow. Let's care for the folks what are still _loyal,_ Dutch! Keep their best interests in mind."

“Maybe _you'd_ squeal, but Arthur ain’t like that,” Lenny bit back, bowing up to Micah and easily dwarfing the man, “We all heard what Dutch said to him, hell, I’d’ve gone too.”

“Damn right, kid,” John set a venomous glare towards Dutch, “Anyone ever said that kind of shit to me, we’d have a _real_ goddamned problem.”

“Watch your tone, _John_ ,” Dutch hissed, barely heard over the thunderous bellow of argument.

After watching Dutch get pulled into the fray, happily spitting arguments and hateful words, Hosea decided he’d had quite enough. Dutch, were he not currently on the verge of strangling four or five particularly argumentative people, could have ended the fighting with one harsh command. Hell, one word from the man was usually enough to startle folks into silence. Arthur, loud as he could get, could’ve done the same, albeit with a bit less finesse. But Hosea’s lungs were more or less decorative these days; his days of shouting like that were well behind him. Instead, he drew his sidearm and fired a single shot into the air.

Those who were armed set their hands to their guns, tightly coiled and ready to strike on pure instinct alone.

After a beat, all eyes were on Hosea, his features pinched with annoyance, smoking gun still raised.

“ _This ain’t up for debate_ ,” Hosea growled, pointedly staring at John and Bill, who were still whispering vile words and trying to subtly beat the shit out of the each other. Hosea wrestled back a cough, unwaning, “ _We are going after Arthur_ whether you like it or not. If _any_ of you got a problem with that, feel free to keep it to your _damn_ self.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Dutch straightened his clothes, cleared his throat, and returned to Hosea’s side. He slicked his hair back in place, his cheeks tinged red, “John, Bill, Charles, you three get packed—"

“Charles ain't back yet,” John called out with a roll of his eyes. 

“What? He's—" Dutch took a mental tally of the gang, " _Shit_ … All right. _Fine_. John, Bill get packed. We’re going to need guns to get anywhere _near_ that river. We leave first thing in the morning. Miss Grimshaw, when Charles comes back, have him—“

Micah's face darkened for a beat, twisted into something awful that went unseen. He shouldered back to the front of the gathering, damn near throwing himself at Dutch's feet with that same syrupy tone he so often affected. 

“Well now, I’d be _happy_ to take his place, Dutch," he said with a crooked grin, placing one hand over his heart and the other on Dutch's shoulder, "Like you said, we’s gonna need _guns_. And I _did_ find the cowpoke’s journal, way I see it, I owe it to dear ol' Arthur to see this one through til the end!”

Dutch stared at him for a moment, regarding him with bewilderment.

With a short shake of his head, he relented, slapping away Micah's rotten grip, “… Fine. John, Bill, _Micah_. Arm yourselves well, we ain’t got no idea what the hell we’re fixing to walk in to. The rest of you, keep working, and keep your heads down. Miss Grimshaw, make sure these degenerates don’t burn down the camp in our absence. If Charles isn’t back by week's end, someone go get him. Give Javier another week if you can.”

As the crowd scattered, Grimshaw stayed behind. She gripped tightly at the corner of Dutch's sleeve.

“Oh, Dutch…” she whimpered, quiet and defeated, unwilling to let the others catch such a vulnerable expression, “I never been gentle on that boy, and I wasn’t thinking— Lord, if you bring him back, I won’t give him chores for a _month_. Won’t even wallop him for leaving or nothin'. Without these folks, I— I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to—”

“Arthur is _fine_ , Miss Grimshaw, I guarantee it. I should’ve—“ Dutch clammed up, leaning heavily on the map spread out on his table. He set his jaw, steadfastly refusing to so much as glance at the devastation he knew was curled over Grimshaw's face, “... I will bring him home, I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another beautiful morning, lovelies ♡
> 
> The gang is straight up not having a good time. Dutch finally sets off after our boy, which surely can *only* go well. 
> 
> A HUGE, HUGE, HUGE thank you to flat_goo, Emmithar, and crazyhotsoup for their absolutely stunning fanart!!!!! You guys had me ugly crying. Wasted a *ton* of eyeliner, but it was well worth it! I legitimately am so overwhelmed by the sheer positive response, had an anxiety attack about it, but we're all good now. Y'all have no idea. *I* had no idea. Turns out fanart is a foolproof way to make me an incoherent, teary mess. Go figure. ♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> (if you guys want to go check out flat_goo's art, it's posted in their artbook. Set aside an hour or so, at least that's how long it took me to tear my eyes away... and if you have art you want to share, or just want to chat, hit me up on tumblr or reddit and make me cry a little more!)
> 
> ♡♡ I love you all!!! I'll see you on Thursday ♡♡


	20. II. V

She’d done her best to keep them afloat.

Both in the sense of function— there are certain things that need doing around a camp, especially one this size; people need to be fed, clothed, and clean, all tasks that required a surprising amount of effort— and in the sense of morale. The camp was quiet, sullen; precariously sat at the precipice of grief and sorrow. Dutch and Hosea had left a gaping hole in the camp, one Grimshaw had attempt filled with pitiful shovelfuls of hope. Reassurances, at first, followed by stern commands. Order, she decided, was the only cure for the morose atmosphere that had engulfed them in their leader’s absence.

Before then, even. Since Arthur left. Since Arthur was bedridden. Since he stumbled back into camp, caked in blood and infection and worse, delirious and frantic. Those who had been there— who had witnessed his return first hand, as well as the blind panic that followed— were driven to nausea and nightmare. Those who weren’t surely heard of his condition in vivid, frightened retellings.

Scared.

They were scared.

And now most of the men were gone; those who hadn’t gone with Dutch worked only harder to make up for the lack of hands. Rather, the lack of Arthur, whose absence from the ledgers served as a potent reminder of _exactly_ how much weight the man pulled around camp— how easy they had it because of his thankless hard work.

And it _was_ thankless. Grimshaw certainly hadn’t thanked him; she never thought she had to. To the casual observer, Arthur spent most of his time galavanting about Lord-knows-where until called upon.

Without him, without the promise that he might return at any moment, deer slung over his shoulder and that same lopsided smile twisted over his face, the camp felt emptier than it had in years. Decades, maybe.

But Grimshaw had promised, and if nothing else she would keep her word. She’d force herself to put on her usual scowl and stalk about, scolding the girls when their hands moved too slow, or taking them aside when their tears became too heavy to hide.

If she took a moment or two to swipe at her own cheeks, who could blame her?

She didn’t ever find more than a moment, though. A thousand things piled up at once and she saw to each of them dutifully, ignoring the frustrated whispers of the girls, writing her off as cruel or cold. But damn it, so long as Grimshaw drew breath, she’d make sure these people— _her_ people— were okay.

She’d only just finished lecturing Tilly about her sloppy darning when Charles came stumbling into camp, limping slightly on a sore ankle and dotted with bruises and scrapes. Grimshaw immediately descended upon him, faltering only when she saw the sorrowful look that weighed upon his features. He hadn’t found Arthur. She could see it on his face.

“Mr. Smith!” she crowed, “You’re back in one piece. I take it you didn’t find anything…”

“Where’s Dutch?” he growled, a creeping urgency to his words

God, he sounded so tired. So thoroughly worn down and raw, so weighed down by the heft of grief and guilt.

“I'm sure you did all you could, don’t you worry. That Arthur has always been particularly good at running off, ain’t your fault he’s a fool... Dutch and some of the boys went out him a few days back, got some kind of lead. Now come sit down before you keel over. ”

With a hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, Grimshaw led Charles to sit, unhappy with how stiffly the man walked and how shaky his legs were. She beckoned for one of the girls to bring over a plate of dinner, and sat with him, holding Charles’s hand between both of their own. It looked as though Charles almost welcomed her fussing for once.

Charles pursed his lips into a frown. He balled his hands together, trying to suppress the bone-deep tremor that ran through them.

“I… found bodies,” Grimshaw’s heart dropped into her stomach. She froze, wide eyed, mind racing and churning in the mere seconds before Charles continued, “O’Driscolls, by the looks of them. Been there a while but... It was… brutal. I think it was Arthur that put ‘em there… Stumbled across them while cutting back through Big Valley. God, I— saw buzzards, and thought…”

Grimshaw was awash in the strangest mixture of relief and dread. Familiar, unfortunately.

“If… if that was him that put those men down…" Charles swallowed back against the image burned into his head, "Then he ain't who I thought he was.”

“Nonsense,” Grimshaw cuffed him upside the head, gently as she could manage, “You stop that. Arthur is as good a man as any, I’m sure he had his reasons. For all we know, it wasn't even him.”

“You didn’t see it, Susan. These men were torn apart. He killed them with his bare hands. Would have thought it was an animal, if not for the burnt out campfire and shells nearby. I'm... I'm sure it was him, but...”

“Arthur is…” Grimshaw pursed her lips, suddenly bombarded by faint, painful memories, “He’s a complicated man. I known him all these years, and I still ain’t learned everything there is to him... You can always ask him yourself once those boys get back.”

“Where’d they run off to, anyways?”

“... They heard Arthur went west.”

“West?” All at once, horrifying realization swept across Charles’s face. He pushed up from the table with a hiss of pain, “Those fools— they so much as step foot across that river, they’re good as dead!”

“You have to trust Dutch, Mr. Smith. He knows what he’s doing—“

“I’m going to try and catch up with them,” Charles bit, ignoring the scream of aches and pains.

In that moment, despite the pit that had settled into her stomach, she made a choice.

“ _You’ll do no such thing!_ You’ll only slow them down, condition you’re in!” Grimshaw barked, stopping Charles in his tracks, “They’ll be _fine_ , Dutch ain’t about to put those boys in danger. You need to rest, we need you well in case they come back.”

“I—“

“I don’t give a damn what you got to say. Go! Get yourself cleaned up and in a bed, I expect you up bright and early to help around camp, the place is a hog parlor.”

And Charles, perhaps a testament to his rapidly waning endurance or a residual memory of his mother bubbling to the surface, did. Grimshaw pursed her lips tight as he stalked off.

She didn’t mention that Dutch had wanted him to come along— she refused to throw him so willingly back into the fire he had just clawed his way out of. She couldn’t. Not with the way his shoulders hung and his breath hitched painfully when he moved too quickly. She'd already lost one boy to this madness, Grimshaw would be damned if she lost any more.

The next day, well past sundown, Javier burst into camp, bloodied, frenzied, and breathless. Even the gentle touch of moonlight couldn’t soothe the panic on his face.

“Bounty hunters,” he panted, when Grimshaw steadied him, wiping the blood from his cheek with the sleeve of her shirt, “A _fuckton_ of them, asking around Valentine. We— we gotta—“

And suddenly, for the second time in as many days, she found herself faced with yet another choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gooooood morning, you! Yes, YOU! You cute lil' dumplin.
> 
> You guys. Anxiety has been through the roof lately, but y'all have been keeping me going! Aah, you readers keep me young! ♡♡♡
> 
> Y’all have been guessing about the bounty hunters *and* Charles for a while, and I LOVED reading your theories. Unfortunately, for now, this is as far as either of those go. Charles was a *little* too late to catch up with Arthur, and it seems Grimshaw has plans of her own.... I wonder what she's up to?
> 
> Aaaaah, but I'll see you all on Sunday! With no answers to any of those questions! ♡♡♡ 
> 
> Stay safe, babies. Daddy loves you! ♡


	21. II. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of suicidal thoughts

West.

He could’ve laughed. He finally— _finally_ — gets to return to the west, and _this_ is his welcome. After months of fleeing east and hating every second of it, of knowing he’d be happy again if he could _just go back west_ , of dreaming of a life far from civilization, he finally got what he wanted.

_And it fucking sucked._

Maybe Dutch was right; maybe they shouldn’t have gone west if _this_ was the west that awaited them.

Arthur wasn’t frightened anymore. Gone was the panic that had gripped him so tightly; absent was the cooling wash of exhilaration and the pleasant burn of newfound freedom.

All that remained was _hot._

New Austin was hot. Worse than hot— _dry_ hot. _Searing_ hot. The kind of hot that baked into the sand, and then rose up in waves, as if the heat bearing down on him from the sun wasn’t quite enough. What he wouldn’t give for an ounce of shade; a tree, a shrub, a particularly inviting cave, goddamned anything to relieve the choking heat. He was already burned red; Arthur had shrugged off his shirt and underlying union suit for an hour, thinking it best to wear as little as possible in such painful weather after both layers had soaked through with sweat. Instead, he burned. His skin was tight and raw, and he was wholly miserable.

Poor Odessa; if Arthur was struggling, surely she was too, her dark coat and heavy tack certainly worsening the experience. She held her head low, but trudged on regardless. They’d taken a few breaks since Blackwater, preferring to walk the trails at night and rest in the shade when the heat was at its worst. The shade was gone, though, and Arthur had to go, too. He was almost there, if the map Hamish had marked for him was accurate. He couldn’t stop now; they could rest in the waters of lake Don Julio, and not a moment sooner.

Trying to pass the time quickly, or perhaps to keep himself from dropping dead on the spot, Arthur sang to himself under his breath. The best he could manage were little bits of songs; he never was one to recall all of the lyrics to anything, usually too drunk by the time the singing started to catch anything more than a few lines.

After repeating the same few fragmented songs a few times over, he started making up his own lyrics, subbing in Odessa, or any of her thousands of nicknames, in whatever way came to mind. It was something Dutch used to do in their younger years; he’d mill about camp, or plod down the trail, loudly bellowing a rousing verse of “Oh, Hosea” instead of “Oh, Susanna”, or, when he felt in the mood for a sea shanty, “Drunken Arthur”, rather than “Drunken Sailor”. Dutch’s nonsense songs often changed with his mood and with the gang. “Oh My Darlin’ Clementine” was quite a popular choice for a long while, though Arthur was well into adulthood before he heard it sung with the name ‘Clementine’ rather than whatever person, place, or animal, had caught Dutch’s eye at at the moment.

Dutch would have _hated_ it here. They’d plotted out a few safe places to lie low in after the ferry job; Arthur hadn’t actually paid too much attention but he knew several were out this way. He’s almost glad they fled into Colter instead. Almost.

Arthur shook those thoughts out of his head.

It was hard not to think of the world in terms of Dutch. It was damn near all he had done for the past twenty years, and it was all he could do now. He knew Dutch would offer some mumbled platitude, some anecdote about how the desert is the truest reflection of the wastes modern society, or some equally meaningless garbage, but within an hour he’d be sullen and quiet. Sweaty.

God, Arthur was sweaty. 

Some small part of him wished Dutch was here, suffering right beside him. Not the Dutch that he fought with; the Dutch he knew from all those years ago. The Dutch he couldn’t get out of his head no matter how hard he tried.

Arthur took a deep breath, hating the way his breath felt choked and stifled. His lips cracked. His shoulder ached.

After the fourth or fifth round of “Odessa Miller”, he ran out of songs and was once again stuck with his thoughts, broken and duplicitous as they were.

He wanted to go home. He wondered, somewhere small, if he could throw himself at their feet and beg enough that they might allow him to stay a little while longer.

He wanted to keep running. Farther, even, than New Austin. Montana, maybe, or back to Oregon.

He wanted to turn back and shoot each and every one of his pursuers. He could outdraw any one of them, probably. Depending on who, exactly, was on his trail, he might manage to kill most of them before they could even pull.

He wanted to swallow a bullet himself; end it all on his terms. He wouldn’t, not with Hamish waiting for his letter, and Odessa just as lost as he was, but he wanted to.

He wanted to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to go, to stop, to stay, to run, to scream, to cry, to somehow get this goddamn _itching_ out from under his skin.

Above everything else, he wanted his damn arm to stop hurting for _two seconds_ so he could think clearly without suffering the throbbing ache and random, arcing pain.

Arthur rounded the cliff; Odessa climbed onwards dutifully, perhaps just as ready to throw in the towel as he was. As he twisted along the winding path, a town came into view, barely dots in the distance.

Armadillo, he guessed. He spotted a church to the left, the white exterior blending in with the pale desert sand. From this high up, if he really tried, he could see the very edges of a lake.

His heart beat quicker in his ribs.

“C’mon darlin’, almost there,” he nudged her on gently. She nickered in response, trudging on all the same.

It was another hour before lake Don Julio was at his feet; another hour of sticky, unpleasant thoughts, all washed away by the deep green water. Arthur damn near fell off of Odessa, cooling his skin in the water and allowing Odessa to wade in as deep as she liked. He tore off his boots, soothing the blisters that he’d earned over the past few days and dumping out the sand that had gathered in the toe. The sun hung like overripe fruit in the sky, threatening to drop at any minute, but Arthur refused to be rushed. He dunked his face in, wetting his hair and allowing the cool, sweet water to melt away the offensive heat that had set into him. His feet sunk deep into the clayey banks.

When finally he felt he could breathe again, and Odessa had finished drinking her fill, he grabbed her reins and walked along the shore, boots slung over his shoulder until they reached the cabin.

Hamish’s cabin.

It was the only building on the lake, a small wooden house built on the southwest shore. It was eerily similar to his home at O’Creagh’s run; as Arthur realized this, a warmth bloomed in his stomach, burning off the anxiety that had stuck into him like burs. He hitched Odessa out front, taking a deep breath before pushing inside.

The house was weathered and torn apart, ransacked, no doubt by locals. As he stood in the darkness inside the small cabin, his heart stuttered. Stopped. The dying golden sunlight filtered in through the broken windows. Furniture was overturned, some smashed, and cabinets hung open— several had been pulled from the hinges entirely. Arthur sat on the only upright chair, for a moment just taking in the chaos around him.

A scorpion skittered across the floor, clearly unhappy to have its home disrupted by such a rude guest. He smashed the beast beneath his boot.

He drew in a sharp breath. Every splinter of wood and fragment of glass weighed upon his shoulders. He knew it wasn’t going to be in great shape— Hamish had told him as much— he knew that, but after long days of travel and suffering the true state of the house, though admittedly better than he feared, hit him hard. He’d have to right things; have to set about fixing the damage that had been done.

But Arthur didn’t move.

All he could do was stare at the carnage.

He recalled Dutch’s lecture of Sisyphus; of the man damned for eternity to roll a boulder up a sheer hill, only to watch as it rolled right back down.

Arthur sat there for a long while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, little sunflowers! ♡
> 
> Thus ends Act II, and we are thrust into Act III, where Things Can Only Get Worse. 
> 
> Our boy has defied the odds and made it to Hamish's cabin! But it feels like we're forgetting something... Oh well. 
> 
> Remember to face the sun today! Whether you're 2 feet tall or 20 feet tall, soak up as much as you can! 
> 
> Love you! ♡ I'll see you all on Tuesday! ♡♡♡


	22. Chapter III: Blackwater

The sun hadn’t yet risen and still the world burned around him, heat radiating up from the sand and baking through the glass windows, same as always. He could hear the shrill cries of the wildlife beyond the splintering walls of the cabin; it is this that pulls Arthur back out into the desert. He couldn’t sleep anyways.

He’d tried. God help him, he’d _wanted_ to, he'd _meant_ to, he really had, but every time he set about fixing the dismal state of the cabin, his chest would ache and tighten, breath picking up before he’d so much as laid a hand on the wreckage. A deep, cold weight set heavy in his stomach, rolling like the icy reaches of the sea, sticking to his bones like molasses. Arthur had pushed aside the mess from one corner of the main room; one tiny corner, filled entirely by his bedroll. He didn’t sleep; didn't even try. He just he sat there, watching the shadows of the cabin stretch and crack into shapes he’d long since forgotten. 

He didn’t know how long it had been. Time was kept by rations and his satchel was finally empty, but the odd angles of his ribs and the way they stuck out from his shirt suggested that, perhaps, that was not the most accurate way to track the passage of days. It had been longer than he thought, at least. Longer than it should have been. Long enough.

Arthur stared at the reflection of the sky cast over the water, the depths now dark and unfathomable. For some reason, it makes him incredibly uncomfortable. He grabbed Odessa, muttering an apology for the painfully early hour, before swinging himself into her saddle.

With nothing better to do, the pair set into Armadillo.

It had been impressed upon him how dangerous the roads of the southwest were after dark, especially around a town so troubled as Armadillo. During their tenure in Blackwater, Hosea set a rule ensuring that nobody went out alone, especially after dark, fearing some of the nastier locals after Jenny got ambushed returning one night and came back tattered and bruised. Arthur, a nasty man himself, was an exception to the rule, but often was dragged along with others as they went out exploring. He hated hearing his name called from across camp after a long day, undoubtedly someone looking for an escort into town. Weirdly, he thought to himself that he might not mind that kind of companionship now.

With darkness rolling thick over the desert, Arthur suddenly very, very aware and very, very alone. He had been for days, weeks perhaps, but only now did he feel it down to his marrow.

Men like him ran in groups for a reason; outlaws, by the very nature of the title, were fair game. Shooting him dead in the street was not a crime— if anything, it was encouraged. Alone, he was a target. An easy target. A sitting duck, as it were, waiting to get snapped up by any passing bounty hunter or gun-toting fool who had ever seen a bounty poster. 'Dead or Alive' was not just a saying. 

It used to be could outdraw damn near anyone. He was a good shot, eerily so. It was part of the reason Dutch had bothered to keep him around. Arthur was unshakable in a firefight, capable of taking shots that others could only dream of. His skills with a gun were second to none. But now, with only one arm and a bloodthirsty gang nipping at his heels on top of those already desperate for his head, he quietly doubted he’d last a month. Louder, to Odessa, he assured her they would be fine. 

He was lucky, he supposed; a man of his size, of his stature, hat pulled low over his eyes, sat atop a horse as dark and imposing as Odessa, was hardly a prime target for the average everyday bushwhacker. Arthur could handle a pair of desperate thieves, could chase off a few rowdy criminals, and might even make a solitary lawman think twice. Others didn’t have the same advantage, if the wrecked wagons dotting the road were anything to judge by. Nevertheless, his nerves were set aflame. Out here, in the isolating silence of the desert, there was nothing to keep someone from setting up on any of the plateaus nearby and picking off outlaws as they meandered through.

Odessa snorted angrily, breaking her gait and pulling Arthur’s attention. His hand immediately wrapped around his Schofield. Arthur squinted into the velvet darkness, barely able to make out the shape of a horse plodding along the road with a heavy, audible limp.

Arthur maneuvered Odessa to its side, further surprised to find a man slumped over the horse’s back.

“Jesus…” he hissed, definitely able to make out dark bloodstains on the rider’s pale skin. The horse, too, was coated, its flaxen coat sticky with drying stains.

“Sorry, feller,” Arthur reached up to grab the horse’s reins, hoping to stop it’s mindless journey. At that moment, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Arthur startled backwards with a shout, Odessa sidestepping beneath him.

“Shit! Thought you were dead, mister!”

“Back off…” the man growled, shakily drawing a pistol, “Back…”

Arthur blinked at the guy, confusion plain on his face.

“Hey now, I was just tryin’ to help! You need a doctor, pal.”

The pistol dropped into the dust.

“T-take what you want…” he murmured, barely audible, even in the deafening silence of New Austin, “Don’t hurt us.”

Arthur huffed, hopping down from Odessa's back, “Ain’t tryin’ to, just pains me to see a horse in such a bad way. Thought you was a goner, really, else I woulda been trying to help you too. Come on then.”

Arthur wrapped his arm around the injured man, pulling him off of his horse. Thankfully, he was still coherent enough to be of some help; there was no way Arthur could have managed that kind of dead weight. He unceremoniously shoved the man up onto Odessa, draping him over her hindquarters. With his horse tethered to the saddle horn, still limping but noticeably relieved to be free of the extra weight, he set a little quicker into Armadillo, focused more on the sounds of the man’s miserable moaning and rattled breath than the cries of coyotes in the distance.

The town was small but strangely bustling for the early hour; folks seemed desperate to soak up as many of the few bearable hours of the day as possible. He made a beeline for the clinic, making note of the shops he that lined the way. This would be _his_ town for as long as he stayed in Hamish’s cabin. A strange thought.

It was nice enough, he supposed. Cleaner than Valentine, if only for lack of mud. He’d heard stories of Armadillo while holed up in Blackwater. The town was nearly lawless; the sheriff scared out of his mind and overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of outlaws that passed through. He’d essentially given up on trying to uphold any amount of law, preferring to deal with the aftermath of bloody duels and random acts of violence.

Much like Van Horn, there seemed to be a niche here that fit Arthur perfectly. Part of Arthur, the worse part, was right at home here. He tried not to dwell on thoughts of his various pieces and how they reconciled with one another. Rarely did that train of thought end well.

He arrived at the doctor’s clinic mere moments after the doctor unlocked the front door

“What happened to him?” the doctor asked, sounding nearly disgusted by the sight of the man's wounds. His gaze flickered from the man to Arthur and back again, “Did you… do this?”

“What? Hell no, I found him out on the road like this, not far out of town.”

“Hm. Put him over there,” the doctor gestured dismissively at a cot in the corner, “Stick around, I might need your help.”

And Arthur stayed. Having situated the man as comfortably as possible, the doctor set to work pulling a pair of bullets out of the man’s flesh, tasking Arthur with the grisly job of pinning the man down as the doctor probed and prodded his fresh wounds. Arthur left only for a few brief minutes to breathe and check on the man’s horse. The palomino gelding would be fine, given enough time, having only suffered a scrape along his shoulder. Arthur could recognize bullet grazes when he saw them; Odessa had plenty of similar scars.

The doctor pulled him back into the small clinic.

“He gonna make it?”

“He should be fine. I cleaned him up best I could. He wanted to thank you, though, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur moved to the man’s bedside. Somehow, bandaged and pale, smelling of ointment, he looked worse than he had when Arthur dragged him in. He didn’t know quite what to say; never really did when folks got hurt like this. He wasn’t known for his comforting words. Luckily, he didn’t have to think long.

“How’s my horse?” the man asked quietly.

“He’ll be fine. Got a few scrapes, but nothin’ awful. Seems tired, mostly, but I ain’t no kind of doctor or nothin... Weren’t half as bad off as you, partner.”

“Fucking Del Lobos,” the man spit venomously, “Fucking _sheriff_. I oughta strangle him for this.”

“Hold on— the sheriff did this to you?” Arthur asked, completely caught off guard.

“No, he— fucking hell, I asked him to give me a hand, he told me to get fucked. Bastard is the reason those Del Lobos are out there raising hell unchecked. Lousy asshole, ain’t no damn good for this town.”

“Sure don’t sound like it,” Arthur mused.

The man held out a hand to Arthur, trembling though it was.

“Dewey Greenwood, I usually run the saloon when I ain’t getting worked over by outlaws.”

“Arthur,” and if Dewey noticed the conspicuous lack of a surname, he didn’t mention it.

“You a lawman, Arthur?”

Arthur nearly laughed at that.

“Not quite.”

“An outlaw?”

“Guess you might call me an adventurer of sorts,” Arthur admitted after a moment. Dewey stilled; he chewed on his lip for a brief moment.

“Passin’ through?”

“Naw,” Arthur huffed, “I’ll be around a bit. Got a friend putting me up nearby.”

“Listen, pal. You don’t seem like too bad a feller. Saved me, saved my horse, most folks would’ve left the both of us for dead, short of killing us on sight. I uh… I got a favor to ask.”

Arthur stared at the man for a moment.Dutch and Hosea had always been surprised at Arthur’s uncanny ability to make friends just about anywhere without even trying. Arthur was annoyed by the seemingly endless requests; complete strangers happy to ask the world of him. He went along with it, usually, often enjoying the break from his usual monotony.

“Shoot,” Arthur offered, tucking his thumb into his gun belt.

“There’s this feller what’s been staying at the saloon the past week or two, some big-city fop, real fancy type. Prepaid by a whole week. Got a routine of sorts— always left before dawn and came back just in time for dinner, ‘cept yesterday. He ain’t been back, didn’t mention nothin’ either. Usually I wouldn’t bother, but he left his things here, and he’s a real nice feller, plenty interesting to talk to, and we don’t get too many of those. I tried goin’ after him myself, you seen what that got me. I know it’s real dangerous out there, but you seem capable enough— shit, you was out on those roads before dawn, either you’re stupid or you ain’t scared of the folks round here I hate to ask, but I would be real appreciative if you might go out and see if you can’t find him.

“Any idea where he ran off to?”

“Not exactly; he mentioned Cholla Springs, not anyplace particular. I barely got past Jorge’s Gap before them damn Lobos spotted me. I ain’t got much, but I can offer hot meals and free drinks, let’s say a month’s worth, if you go.”

“All right… Deal. You, uh... know this guy might be dead, right? A city slicker left out in the desert overnight don't have great odds.”

Dewey extended his hand, and Arthur sealed their contract with a handshake.

“I know. Just gotta try.”

Arthur nodded curtly, and once again at the doctor, before leaving.

Chances are the man was dead. The desert was a harsh and unforgiving place, even to the most well prepared. From the description Dewey gave, it seemed this man was woefully underprepared. Nevertheless, he set out, determined to be back before nightfall.

It was kind of a relief, in a way; a soothing balm spread over some of the rawest parts of himself, a way to distract from the thousand more pressing things he had to tend to. A way to feel busy and normal in ways he hadn’t since the O’Driscoll’s so graciously hosted him.

O’Driscolls. Those awful days that had consumed his thoughts for weeks now seemed so far away. He had bigger problems now; problems he hopefully had put behind him. The Van Der Lindes would be hesitant to trounce about in south-of-the-river West Elizabeth; he hoped they’d simply move on to bigger and worse things rather than risk getting themselves hanged in pursuit of him.

He still had a letter to send to Hamish. He had no idea what to say, nor how to send it discreetly without the man drawing unwanted ire. Assuming Hamish hadn’t been tracked down and killed already.

His shoulder bit at him out of nowhere, as if the wounds slowly knitting themselves back together were jealous of the attention he finally paid to other nuisances, but even the pain was better than nothing.

Arthur shook those thoughts out of his head. He could worry about all of that later. For now, he had a man to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning, my precious little polliwogs ♡♡♡
> 
> Bit of a slower chapter; Arthur getting roped into other people's business as usual, but luckily he doesn't seem to mind all that much! Look at that, he's already made a friend, too! 
> 
> I hope you have a wonderful day, y'all. I really do.
> 
> ♡ I'll see you on Thursday! ♡


	23. III. II

He doesn't know why he went.

His gut still ached and screamed and gnawed at him; he hadn’t remembered to stock up before heading out— or hadn’t bothered to— and was woefully unprepared for more than perhaps a few hours in the empty stretches of New Austin. He was exhausted to his bones, his mind a constant, ceaseless buzz. His arm— well, his arm was just the same: ceaseless, constant. These days, even that was a kind of comfort, strangely.

One could argue that he had more pressing matters to attend to. A cabin to right, a letter to draft, a group of bloodthirsty outlaws hungry to see him hang, but for whatever reason the mere thought of those things made his chest hurt something fierce. He couldn’t bring himself to pay the painfully long list of woes any mind; it made him sick beyond reason. His hands trembled. But this? Here, traversing the wide desert, searching for a stranger who might already have fed the buzzards before Arthur had ever set eyes upon Armadillo, he could think. He could breathe.

He could manage.

Odessa picked over the dry landscape carefully, steering wide around anything that looked even remotely prickly. She and Arthur both already sported scrapes from brushing up again the local flora, and neither of them were keen on pulling more thorns out of their skin. Like a ripe fruit, the sun sat just overhead, burning down on Arthur angrily. Sweat rolled down his cheek, soaking through his shirt. His breath was stifled and choked in the suffocating heat, but he carried on nevertheless. 

He scanned the horizon, which stretched on infinitely before him, first for any sign of the lost traveller, and second for Del Lobos. He had avoided them well enough thus far; as violent and angry as they were, they didn’t seem keen on bushwhacking. It was a confidence that set Arthur slightly at ease; they knew this entire state was under their thumb. Unlike the O’Driscoll’s, they saw no need to swarm and sting passer-by’s to remind them who was in charge, and unlike the O’Driscoll’s, the Del Lobos didn’t know Arthur from a hole in the ground— as long as he was mindful to steer clear of the roving packs of outlaws, he could manage just fine.

That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Something heavy in his gut wanted nothing more than to kill every last one of those bastards just to see if he could. He shook that thought away when his heart squeezed a little too tight.

“Hello?” Arthur called out, not even receiving a echo in response, “Anyone alive out here?”

Nothing, as expected. He cast his eyes to the ground once more. Rock and sand— a bitch to track through, but not necessarily impossible. He could, just barely, make out what he assumed to be horse tracks, and set to following them. He’d give it an hour before heading back.

They wound through the desert, pausing every few yards before continuing; he’d never tracked such a disorganized and aimless rider before. After trudging through what felt like the entirety of Cholla Springs, warily eying coyote tracks, cougar prints, and animal bones, he came upon a bay morgan tethered at the cliffside, mere feet away from a cave.

Arthur called out once more, “Hey, anyone in here?”

“H-hello? Yes— I’m afraid I’m in a bit o-of a jam!”

Arthur furrowed his brows. He knew that voice.

Not a second later, he was absolutely aghast to see Albert Mason emerge from the small cavern.

Albert Mason, who was doing his best impression of a pincushion. The man was absolutely covered in cholla spines. If Arthur had to guess, he’d bet the man had either backed into one and tried to remove the broken stems by hand, or he’d gotten too close while on horseback, as Beatrice, Albert’s faithful mare, was stuck full of bright gold spines as well. Chunks of cactus clung to both of them, and Arthur winced, hissing through his teeth. Albert’s skin was bright red and tight, his face sweaty and flushed despite the extra color. He was damn near soaked through with blood, too.

“Shit— What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Hang on a minute— Arthur Morgan? I must be losing my marbles, what are the chances?”

A bright smile graced Albert’s features, but did little to distract from the man’s poor state.

“Aw, I should’ve known it was you. What other fool would do readily throw himself to the mercy of nature? You got any idea what kind of nasty shit is out here?” Arthur steadied Albert with a hand on his shoulder, careful to avoid the spines himself.

“Yes, well, it seems that even with all of those threats, it’s the flora that gets me, not the fauna. I-I seem to have agitated the local greenery, and come out worse for wear.”

“We gotta get you to a doctor.”

“I-I’m afraid that might prove rather difficult. I’ve tried pulling these things off of me, but I am fairly well near covered. My first aid kit is no match for the fury of nature. I’m quite unsure of how to ride a horse at the moment, my darling Beatrice has been assaulted as well.”

Arthur circled Albert, eying the smattering of cactus needles stuck in him. He knew this bastard of a plant all too well.

Years ago, back when the Van der Linde Gang was nothing but rather a group of miscreants causing trouble across the country, back when he was just Arthur and not Arthur Morgan, outlaw with a five-thousand-odd bounty _,_ he’d stumbled into a patch of Jumping Cholla himself. His skin still puckered with scars from the unfortunate run-in, and he remembered the hours it had taken for Hosea and Bessie to pull the spines out. Literal hours, perhaps even a full day, he was sobbing in agony while Annabelle ran a hand through his hair and Dutch held him tight against his chest, cracking jokes and telling stories to help ease the time.

God he missed Annabelle.

... Maybe Dutch, too.

“I’m gonna have to I’m gonna have to yank some of these out of you myself, Mr. Mason. Ain’t nothin’ for it.”

“I-I figured that might be the case. H-how do you want me?”

“Give me a minute, let me get set up. You just— you stand there, and try not to pass out on me. Get your shirt off, if you can..”

Arthur called Odessa over, snagging a pair of thick boar-leather gloves that he kept stowed away there, as well as a flask of moonshine he’d picked up in Blackwater and a roll of bandages.

“Ain’t gonna lie, Mr. Mason, this won’t be nothin’ nice.”

He handed Albert the flask, which he happily sipped from, sputtering into coughs at the swell of the potent liquor. Were the man not in dire straits, it might have been amusing.

Using the edge of his knife and the pad of his thumb, Arthur knocked the chunks of cholla off first, ripping them out of Albert’s skin with enough force to fling them off into the desert. As he worked, he doused Albert’s skin in moonshine, hoping to spare the man the pain of infection and fever. Arthur took to the quills, cringing as he yanked them from Albert’s skin. To his credit, Albert didn’t scream once.

Arthur considered, briefly, that that might not have been a good sign.

He frowned as a stray spine stuck through the seam of his glove, burying itself into the meat of his thumb. He yanked it free with his teeth and continued, unperturbed, frowning when Albert started to shiver despite the frankly ridiculous temperature. Arthur’s work became a little more haphazard then, favoring haste to fastidiousness.

Trying to ease Albert’s mind of the pain, Arthur struck up a conversation.

“That feller from the saloon was mighty worried about you.”

“Ah, yes, Dewey. What a lovely man, fine companion. Had I known you were coming to Armadillo, I might have delayed my excursion a few days, saved him a bit of worry…”

“It was sort of a last-minute trip.”

“Once again, though, you’ve saved me through pure chance. I owe you my life, Arthur.”

“Let’s talk about owing once I’ve actually saved you. You could just as easy drop dead two minutes from now.”

“Well, then you’ve saved me two minutes,” Albert offered a weak smile, but kept his gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to look at the blood that smeared across his skin, “I wasn’t sure I could last much longer. T-these spines aren’t venomous, are they? I certainly feel worse for wear…”

Arthur chuckled, prying another spine from Albert’s neck.

“Naw, just ain’t pleasant. The doc back in town’ll fix you up fine in no time.”

They stayed like that for over an hour, Albert biting back tears as Arthur pulled and tugged and cut, removing the most obvious offenders and wiping at the copious amount of blood that poured forth. The pair exchanged meaningless words, though Albert’s voice quickly died off. As Arthur’s shoulder ached and screamed, unhappy with damn near everything, he, too, fell quiet. His arm throbbed and writhed painfully beneath the sling.

Finally, he felt confident enough in his work to haul a pallid Albert onto Odessa’s back. Beatrice would have to walk alongside them. He’d set to her injuries when they returned; for now he just had to hope the mare didn’t drop dead before they reached town.

The sky had begun to dim overhead; at least they wouldn’t be traveling in the heat of the day. His pace slowed for Beatrice, hoping the injured mare could keep up, and the long ride back to Armadillo was dreadfully quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gooooooood morning, you beautiful sea cucumbers ♡  
> Raise your hand if you aren't hopelessly charmed by this clumsy little photographer. Anyone? AAaanyone? No? That's what I thought ♡  
> Sorry if this one isn't quite up to snuff, I've been a little out of it these past few days. Shout out to Emmithar for putting up with my dumb ass! Love you boo, what would I do without you? ♡
> 
> ♡♡ I'll see you all on Sunday!!! Be good to yourselves!! ♡♡


	24. III. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self harm  
> Really y'all, if you're bothered by this kind of thing, drop a comment and I'll give you the chapter with the harmful content removed. Take care of yourselves.

The sun had only barely nestled itself against the horizon when they’d set eyes on Armadillo, both men soaked in sweat and whipped raw by wind. Once again, the streets were swollen with people, all of whom steadfastly kept their eyes to themselves, as though Arthur hadn’t torn down the main thoroughfare with a barely-responsive Albert clutched tight against him.

“Hey!” Arthur hollered, the dramatic entrance stirred his own injury, but Arthur paid it no mind. He damn near kicked the clinic door off its hinges, muttering a small apology to Albert when the movement jostled his wounds. Albert was slung over his shoulder, limp and uncoordinated, pallid and frail.

“What is it now?” the doctor turned on his heels haughtily, flinching backwards at the sight; neither man fared particularly well, “Goddamn, another one? You… You sure you ain’t…?”

“What? No, I— That other guy asked me to find him! He’s—”

“Ah, I don’t really much care how you get ‘em, so long as someone can foot the bill. Set him down— shit, what’d you do, buddy? Try getting sweet on a cactus?”

Albert groaned, surprisingly conscious, if only just, “It certainly _feels_ that way.”

“To each their own— Guess I’ll need a hand again, pal, if you don't mind,” he shifted Albert’s weight off of Arthur, the man shamefully thankful for the relief, his arm aching something fierce.

“I must’ve pulled a thousand myself, but damn it if there ain’t more…” Arthur murmured, plucking a few stray thorns from his shirt.

“You did a shit job. Come on, grab those forceps and a basin—“

The doctor maneuvered Albert with practiced, almost disinterested, ease. All the while, he barked orders. Arthur dutifully followed, painfully aware of the studious gaze that had set heavily upon him, a feeling he was keen to ignore. He coughed, hoping to disguise his wariness as a more general discomfort.

“Nathanial Johnston,” the doctor said out of nowhere, drowning out Albert’s pathetic whimpers, “Most folks call me Doc though… Suppose if you’re gonna be bringing me so much business, we ought to get acquainted.”

“Arthur.”

They sat in silence as the doctor worked. Arthur pulled a chair close, gripping Albert’s hand tight despite the pallor in his own cheeks and the sweat that dried onto his skin. He wanted nothing more than a bath, but stuck fast by Albert’s bedside. Hours passed in this way, filled only by Albert’s groans and Arthur’s low, comforting whispers.

Nathanial cast sly eyes upon Arthur’s sling, a tight frown pulling across his face. He watched the way Arthur shifted around it, how entire body wound tight with pain. He could see the subtle spasm of muscle and twitch of uncoordinated fingers even through the stiff canvas sling. Plucking cholla spines was second nature by now, but the way Arthur, almost unthinkingly, set Albert’s hand aside in favor of burying his fingers as deep into his own bandaged flesh as possible, well, _that_ was new. 

“Quite the arm you got there.”

Arthur’s head shot up, not unlike a scolded child, mouth parted in abandoned retort. Whatever bitter words had settled onto his tongue were swallowed back when Albert let out a pathetic whimper. Arthur took his hand up once more, not letting go until the doctor announced he’d done all he could, punctuating his work with a vial of something potent.

Nathanial wiped Albert’s blood off of his hands as the man himself drifted off, safe in the arms of whatever the doctor had injected into the crook of his arm.

“All right then,” he said, massaging the mixture through the muscle of Albert’s arm, “Let me see it. No charge, consider it a finder’s fee.”

It took a moment for Arthur to realize that the doc had been addressing him. He blinked dumbly, drawing his injured limb a little closer.

“Thanks for the offer, Doc,” Arthur chuckled, suddenly painfully aware of the throbbing bite of his shoulder, hoping a tense grin might divert the doctor’s attention, “How bout you focus on Mr. Mason for now, let me worry bout my damn arm.”

Doc huffed, “How bout you shut the hell up and let me do the doctoring, huh?” he prodded at Albert, who didn't so much as groan, “He ain’t going nowhere. Me, on the other hand… Look, ain’t got all night, partner. Might could help, you know. Got plenty here for all kinds of shit.”

Lord have mercy he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Every ounce of himself screamed and thrashed against the mere _thought_ of setting that monstrosity bare. But damn it, it ached something fierce, clearly only worsened by Arthur’s jaunt into the vast wilderness, and whatever it was that had dragged Albert into a numb, dreamless sleep was seeming pretty good about now, so he did.

Hesitantly, Arthur untombed his left arm from its resting place beneath the sling and layers of gauze he hadn’t replaced in at least a week. Nathaniel’s face didn’t so much as waver as he revealed the mess beneath, a permanent facade of concentration plastered across his features.

Arthur turned his head, unable to look at the arm he had now unveiled. The desert air stung and pinched at his skin. His stomach rolled with nausea.

“Hm,” Nathanial took his limb in hand, unperturbed, gently turning it over, “… It hurts?”

Arthur grit his teeth, “All the damn time.”

The doc examined Arthur’s arm as though it weren’t still part of him, as though it were merely a decorative conversation piece Arthur carried at his side— and it might as well have been. The muscles pulled and shrieked at random, his fingers curled and shaking without Arthur asking them to. He couldn’t straighten his hand; couldn’t force it to move regardless of how hard he tried. On occasion, they’d contract all at once, refusing to relax and leaving him trembling in silent agony, begging whatever spectre had taken use of his arm to set him loose once more.

The crater carved into his shoulder by buckshot was now nothing more than a gnarled pink hollow, raw but whole nonetheless. A reminder and nothing more.

“How long’s it been like this?”

“… two months, just about.”

“And…” Nathanial’s face dropped into a steady frown, “You’ve been taking care of these?”

Arthur nodded tightly, unable to speak. He didn’t have to look to know what the doctor had set upon. He couldn’t bear to. Nausea and guilt churned fast and violent, thick in his gut.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, perhaps having seen the blood drain from Arthur's cheeks, “You do this?”

His fingertips softly traced along the too-straight lines sliced into Arthur’s arm. Some fresh, barely scabbed over, and others already scarred, paled by time.

“Naw, just real bad at shaving.”

“Pal, you can’t be—”

“I know.”

“There are better ways to—“

He would’ve torn his arm back if he could, would have wrenched it free of the invasive fingers, regardless of how gently they ran across his skin.

“There _ain’t._ Can’t feel a damn thing ‘sides pain all the goddamn time. I needed a fucking _break_. Thought if I could...”

“I can’t say I blame you. This arm is… Well, it ain’t good. You able to move it at all?”

“Sure ain’t bout to take up boxing…”

“I can give you something for the pain; can’t promise it’ll work though. Shit like this is nasty business. I think you’re better off if I just amputate.”

The entire world went white, lost in a high-pitched ring that consumed him mercilessly. It was gone. All of it. Armadillo dropped away, the doctor vanished, Albert was no longer there, resting fitfully in his cocoon of gauze.

It was just Arthur.

Alone.

Forgotten.

Useless.

Those words, spoken with the same casualness and candor one might use when discussing the weather _burned_ in his ears. They sat there, they _festered_ there.

His blood ran cold, stagnant; his skin blistered _,_ hot and scathing to the touch. He shot up from the stool he'd been sat on, his entire perception shrouded in red, the rage unmatched to anything he'd known before. Blinding. Potent.

That useless fucking arm of his caterwauled at the sudden, unbound movement.

“Like hell,” he growled, his thoughts worryingly fast, his hand gripping his fucking useless arm tight to his chest where that damn sling used to be. A tray of tools clattered to the floor as he stumbled back, as though struck.

“I can have it off by tonight, you’ll be up and working in a week,” Nathaniel offered, unfazed by Arthur’s outburst, speaking with such apathy that Arthur _almost_ convinced himself that he’d misheard, “I’m the best in the county, not that that means too much, but at the very least I can take an arm. You think on it, but the longer you keep it, the longer it hurts. Nothin else for it.”

Arthur surged forward and grabbed Nathanial with a hand around his throat. His useless arm hung by his side, heavy and limp like wet cloth, but Arthur didn’t fucking care.

He wanted to squeeze the fucking life out of him. Wanted to break every bone in his damn body. Wanted to smear that doctor across the desert, to tear him to pieces and leave him with a lungful of teeth, to drive any of these scalpels into his neck and watch the man slowly suffocate under the weight of his own blood.

But he didn’t.

Something settled in him, frighteningly sudden, and he dropped the doctor once more. The anger died town, fading into something duller, and try as he might he couldn’t reignite that dimming ember again.

He wasn’t mad. Not anymore. There was no pounding rage, nor icy indignation. He wasn't awash in contempt, his muscles didn't ache for violence.

He was just... tired.

“Fuck off,” he hissed, with far less venom than he had hoped.

Arthur’s ears buzzed as he grabbed his bandages, discarded in a pile and stumbled back out into the streets, taking a minute only to catch his breath in an alley and rebury that fucking arm.

He pushed into the saloon, receiving a warm welcome from Dewey the barkeep, still bruised but breathing.

 _It’ll get better_.

Hosea promised he’d recover— swore it— he just needs time.

 _Wounds like this take time to heal_.

Time.

He drank.

He tried and failed to shake the icy weight of the doctor’s words.

He drank.

Cut his arm off. What a fucking joke.

He drank.

If it was better to have his fucking limb torn from his body, if this whole time he wasn’t going to heal anyways, if he never had a chance to begin with, if his life was over the moment that O'Driscoll pulled that goddamned trigger, then what the fuck had all of this been for?

_Fuck that._

He drank. More than a month’s worth in a night, but Dewey kept filling his glass anyways.

For once, the sun rose before Arthur. With a miserable groan, he peeled his cheek from the filthy counter, squeezing his eyes shut against the bright sunlight, startled awake by a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry to wake you, Arthur! Here, I was worried you’d moved on! I thought I might not get a chance to thank you, yet another stroke of good luck I suppose! Won’t you join me for breakfast? On me, I insist!”

Albert Mason sat beside Arthur, smile far too bright for such a painful morning. He ordered two plates before Arthur could answer.

“Thank you…” Arthur hissed at the pounding in his head as he slowly adjusted to wakefulness, “… didn’t expect to see you up and about so quickly. You all right?”

“Ah, yes! Fit as a fiddle, save for a bit of a sunburn and a touch of exhaustion!” Albert stretched his arms wide, cheeks tinged happy and pink, “It truly is awe-inspiring that nature could create a plant that is so deadly and capable of harm, and so very fitting that I would stumble into one. Add to that a case of heatstroke, but he fed me some foul-tasting medicine and I feel right as rain! Allegedly, I shouldn’t even scar too terribly! I knew I ought to have set off after wild horses, but silly me, determined to get eaten I suppose. Ah— before I forget, I thought you might like this. I’ve been carrying it along on the off chance we ran into each other again. I should consider this a stroke of fate.”

Albert dug through his bag, handing Arthur a photograph.

Arthur stared at the picture, recognizing it after a moment as the wolves that had almost eaten the pair of them the last time they had met. If he pushed their vicious snarling from his mind, and could briefly forget the scars they’d left on his ankle, Arthur could admit it was a damn nice picture.

He let out a low, appreciative whistle, or as close as he could get considering the dryness in this throat.

“That came out fine. Thank you kindly, Mr. Mason.”

“I couldn’t have managed without you! It seems to be a trend these days, I’m afraid. So tell me, Arthur: what brings you down into these parts? I sincerely doubt you came all this way simply to rescue me from the delicate jaws of nature once more.”

“Ah… a friend of mine got a cabin down here needs fixing up. Thought it’d be good for me while I, uh… recover.”

Albert’s eyes widened and fell onto Arthur’s useless arm, mouth agape as though he had only just realized Arthur had been short a limb. And maybe he had— Albert wasn’t known for his keen skills of observation. A tiny, fragile smile forced its way onto Arthur’s face before he had noticed.

“Oh goodness, Arthur! What’s happened? Are you all right?” Albert’s hands fluttered over him nervously, as though simple touch were enough to ease Arthur’s wounds.

“I’ll be fine, just can’t use the damn thing right now.”

“Well, that’s a relief! Not that you’re wounded, that’s frankly awful, but that you’ll be fine! I do worry about you… All right then, I’ve decided. In order to repay you for once again saving my life, allow me to help you with that cabin of yours.”

“You— It’s in real bad shape, I ain’t sure there’s much you could do.”

“Au contraire, in another life I was a carpenter! Well, my grandfather was, and I sat by his side on occasion... I assure you, I am more than capable!”

Arthur bit back a bubble of laughter. They finished their breakfast together, engaged in friendly prattle all the while. For the first time in ages Arthur felt normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gooood morning my precious snooks ♡ My goodness, how I've missed you ♡
> 
> Albert finally gets the care he so desperately needs, and Arthur doesn't. Slightly un-fun fact, when my dad had nerve damage in his fingers, he would stick himself with needles on the off chance he could somehow disrupt the feeling. He's better now though! 
> 
> But you know what? At least this Arthur is ALIVE! Unlike someone ELSE'S fic ಠ_ಠ Em.  
> (Emmithar's newest fic is gut-wrenching and you should go check it out)
> 
> I love you all, and hope you're being happy, healthy, and productive! Do your best always ♡
> 
> See you on Tuesday! ♡♡♡


	25. III. IV

He wasn’t in Strawberry.

Between the five of them, they scoured every damn inch of that town. Their boy was smart; he’d skirt through the mountains, avoiding Tall Trees, which was brimming with bounty hunters. ‘ _Super agents’,_ as Trelawny had called them, were camped out en masse, last anyone checked, waiting for any one of them to be stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime. 

If he had gone west, and Dutch forced himself to believe that he had, Arthur would’ve had to stop in Strawberry before continuing. The mountains were unforgiving— they learned that while fleeing Blackwater in the first place— and the desert was worse. Crossing the river and cutting through Great Plains was impossible, the whole area was teeming with lawmen. He would have stopped, refilled his water skins, and restocked his supplies before moving on. Strawberry was the only safe town for miles. He would’ve rested his horse; given her a day or two before undertaking such a monumental journey.

But he didn’t.

Dutch interrogated that damn shopkeeper. He probed the folks at the inn for any information. He even schmoozed the sheriff, the one man who would definitely had known if Arthur had come through. They all knew him. Much to Dutch’s surprise, Arthur was a familiar face around Strawberry; a big spender in the shop, a frequent customer at the inn, and a damn bounty hunter in his spare time for the lazy lawmen that couldn’t be bothered to uphold their own laws. They knew him.And not one person saw him.

Which means Arthur hadn’t been there. Hope died in his throat; his lead had been eviscerated.

Arthur hadn’t been in Strawberry, and Dutch was edging on panic.

John and Hosea had perched themselves at the very edge of the cliff, binoculars trained on Blackwater; from this far, there wasn’t much for them to see. Hosea rattled off numbers, counting bounty hunter camps dotted along the opposite cliffs, as John searched the city itself for signs of danger.

“Looks empty.”

“Well, it ain’t. Keep looking,” Hosea replied.

“No, really. I talked to Javier, after they grabbed Sean. He told me they had Pinkertons on every corner; I spot a handful of cops at _best_.”

“Why don’t we just go in there?” Bill barked, sitting in the shade of a tree, “’Tween the five of us, we can get in, take a look around, and get out. They couldn’t stop us _before._ ”

“Why the hell are we going to Blackwater anyhow?” Micah growled, somehow in a worse mood than was usually expected of the man, “Stepping foot anywhere near that damn city is asking to be hanged or worse. What makes you think we’ll be able to find Morgan in there? What if he’s already hanged? They could grab all of us, Dutch. I ain’t sure this is the most responsible choice— every minute we're away from camp is another minute those women and children suffer _needlessly_.”

“Micah, just shut the hell up, would you? _For once?_ ”

“Would _all_ of you _please_ shut the hell up? I can’t hear my own _goddamned_ thoughts!” Dutch snapped, teeth bared, but there weren’t any thoughts to hear; at least, none of importance. Blackwater existed in his mind as this untouchable, incalculable object; something to be avoided, planned around, not through. It was too unpredictable, too populated, too full of _fucking Pinkertons._

But Arthur hadn’t been in Strawberry, which means he went to Blackwater. Or he didn’t. And if he didn't—

“We’ll find him,” Hosea said softly, but something bitter had settled deep into the lines of his face.

“ _Obviously,_ ” Dutch bit back, “Ain’t a matter of _if_ , it's— _it's_ —“ It’s a thousand things he couldn't put to words. It's one _very specific_ thing he didn't dare to so much as _think_ , because thinking would have made it _real_. Blackwater was a deathtrap— a surefire way to end up hanged or worse, assuming Arthur made it there at all. He shook that icy feeling from the back of his throat. “We just have to pick up the trail. We know he’s got someone else after him, he’ll be doing his damnedest to cover his tracks. We just have to be smarter, and— and _faster_. We’ll set out early, maybe push the horses a bit harder, see if- if maybe he left a sign somewhere— Power through, beat him into Armadillo or- or that settlement, Manzanita, and—“

“We need to pace ourselves, Dutch,” Hosea replied, voice gentle despite the way Dutch bristled like a feral cat,“If we try to catch up, we’ll end up killing the horses. He’s got a head start— not only that, he’s got that absolute beast of his. Odessa outran The Count— ain’t no way we can catch up. Especially if he’s… if he’s pushing her.”

Dutch sucked in a deep breath, anger seeping into his expression. Hosea was right. 

One would assume that Arthur’s preferred breed would be something as angry and foul tempered as he was, but no: strangely, Arthur preferred big, gentle breeds. Namely, he loved his Warmbloods. That’s not to say he disliked other breeds; over the years, Arthur’s loved a lot of horses or a lot of different types. Dutch’s favorite had always been a dappled black thoroughbred, a handsome steed Arthur rode for a good few years before it was downed during a robbery. He had a paint as well, stolen from some lady, but the sweet mare was old and only lasted a year. But Arthur had an undeniable soft spot for Warmbloods.

Boadicea was a warmblood. Lord, if there were any horse deserving of eternal life, it was her. Boadicea too was sweet; a gentle steel gray dapple Arthur had stolen from a stable on a whim after she licked his hat off. Arthur fell in love then and there— and then again when she kicked the shit out of him and had him laid up in bed for a week with bruised ribs. Dutch loved her, too, her spirited but warm temperament making her an easy favorite among the usually cold and feisty gang horses. As much as he missed that horse, he knew Arthur missed her more.

Then came Odessa. Odessa was goddamned fast and angry, and Dutch _hated_ her more than anything.

Odessa was an absolute monster. She had none of the sweetness of Bo. Hell, even The Count was nicer. She kicked, she bit, and spit, but lord she was fast, and she was absolutely unshakable. She was a beast pushed beyond her limits, which is perhaps what drew Arthur’s eye to begin with. She was ugly; scarred still, but at least her bones didn’t stick out quite so much anymore. More than anything, she loved Arthur with a fearsomeness matched only by Bo. He loved her too, and he loved her hard. The pair was nearly inseparable; on warm nights, he could be found asleep curled against her— after all, she had to be kept far away from camp, lest she trample some poor soul that got too close or bite another horse hard enough to split their hide.

Arthur loved the sweethearts, but he loved the bastards too.

Dutch supposed that explained quite a bit, actually.

Suddenly he was pacing again. Not that anyone was surprised. His brows furrowed. Dutch broke his manic pattern, making a beeline for the map of Blackwater he had spread out. Hosea lowered his binoculars, warily eyeing his partner, searching his face for any sign of the thoughts churning beneath.

“I’m going,” Dutch said, “If I can get in there, I bet Arthur went right to the general store; our boy is smart, right? He wouldn’t have stopped long, would’ve taken the shortest route in. If— if it's just me, I can slip in and out before they notice.”

“That’s a damn death wish,” John sneered, “Stupidest idea I ever heard.”

“Do you have a better one?”

“Any idea is better. Hell, _Bill’s_ idea was better. Last I heard they wallpapered the city with your likeness. Ain’t no way you can get in there without someone noticing you.”

“I-I’m with Marston on this one,” Bill chimed in, “Boss, you go in there y-you’re gonna get hanged.”

“ _That’s what I’ve been saying_ ,” Micah hissed, “It’s damn foolish. _Here’s_ a plan: we head back to camp, regroup and go from there, where we aren’t sitting fucking ducks waiting for Pinkertons to stroll on by and scoop us up.”

Dutch curled his hands into fists, but he couldn't bear to look at any of them, not with the way their expectant eyes bore into him. His voice dropped low and calm, “If you boys want to tuck tail, you go right on ahead. _I’m going._ ”

“… I’ll go.”

Suddenly all those eyes, heavy and waiting, were on John.

“Like hell you will!" Dutch barked, "I’m going alone, it’s too dangerous—“

“No… Dutch, this could work…” Hosea hummed thoughtfully, laying a hand on John's shoulder, “I hardly doubt anyone can look past that ugly mug, no offense son. He weren't scarred last we were there.”

“Hosea, this is—“

“Not alone, of course. We’d send someone in with him; if they get into trouble, they can rally together and circle back here.”

“Boss, you know I would gladly die for any one here, but I sure as shit ain’t going. If you fools want to risk your lives, it breaks my heart but there ain't nothing I can do to stop it,” Micah said a little too quickly, disguising the sharpness of his tone with an eye-roll, “Stepping foot in that town is suicide.”

“Ah, damn it— fine, I’ll go…” Bill groused, “Gonna need a disguise though, I ain't got no scars or nothin.”

“This is perfect,” Hosea clapped Dutch on the shoulder, his hand lingering a moment longer, “Bill’s stupid and big enough that nobody’s gonna look at him twice.”

“Okay… Okay. Okay," Dutch set to pacing once more, turning the earth beneath his soles, "You boys, listen up: in and out. If you— You ask around, see if you can’t find out if he’s been through. Check the usual places; saloon, general store, doctor… avoid the east side of town if you can. Set out at dawn, before most folks are about. If you aren’t back here before sundown, I _will_ go in after you, you understand me?”

“Got it, Dutch.”

“Yeah, boss.”

“What we should be doing is turning back! I ain’t sure it’s worth putting all of us in that kind of danger just to find a man who don’t want to be found, ” Micah chimed in helpfully with a smile that always reminded Hosea of festering, fly-ridden meat, “It’s better if we cut him loose anyhow, seeing as his arm was busted anyways and he weren't all that much use to us anyhow—“

“Shut the hell up, Micah.”

“I’m just saying, for all we know, Morgan is already dead, Dutch. Weren’t exactly the most hardy of us, now was he? Mighta shot hisself the day he left.”

“Micah, you shut your goddamned mouth," Dutch warned.

“You read his journal same as me!” that same gesture, hands in the air in a mockery of surrender, “I’m saying it wouldn’t be a surprise is all. Think it’s better for us to focus on the folks that are more keen on _surviving_ , and not some- some disloyal, yellow-bellied fa—“

Hosea damn near pounced upon Micah, ready to beat the shit out of him for even suggesting such a thing and, honestly, Dutch wasn’t going to stop him. Luckily, unfortunately, John stepped in instead, forcing himself between the two as he shoved Micah backwards.

He spat, “ _What the hell is wrong with you?_ Get out of here. Go take watch, ‘fore I bust you up. Goddamned lunatic.”

Micah rolled his eyes and left, making a big show of peeling himself from the dirt and grabbing his guns, muttering to himself all the while. Bill trudged along after him at Micah's request, perhaps desperate for an escape from the terse air of their small camp. 

“Bastard,” John growled, ensuring Micah was good and gone. He glared at Dutch accusingly, “Why the hell did we bring him along? Man's a snake!”

“Oh, come now, John—“

“He’s right, Dutch. He ain’t no good. Frankly, he gives me the creeps.”

“He’s a good shot,” Dutch hissed, “And for all we know, we could be walking into a _goddamned warzone_ ; we need another set of guns; some extra protection. Excuse me for wanting to keep what family I got left safe.”

“Bill ain’t enough gun for you?”

“For _Blackwater?_ There ain’t enough guns in the damn _country._ Micah volunteered, I ain’t about to turn down a willing pair of hands.”

Dutch finally stopped his pacing for good, sitting on a turned-over log. Hosea damn near collapsed beside him, plopping down with a belaboured sigh.

John squished up against them, wiggling his way between the pair as he had done so many times before, sour-faced but needy nonetheless. Ever since he was young, he’d thrived on this kind of physical contact, always needing someone to cling onto, and Dutch was suddenly sick with the realization that it had been a very long time since he’d offered more than a friendly clap on the shoulder. Dutch ran his hands over his face.

Arthur hadn’t been in Strawberry, which meant he’d gone into Blackwater, if he’d gone this way at all.He might have been so eager to escape he went right into the maw of the one place that wanted to see them all dead. He’d run in such a panic, perhaps, that every ounce of instinct that Dutch had pressed upon him these past years had disintegrated, and now Dutch was ready to risk his neck, quite literally, to get his boy back. John and Hosea, too, neither of whom would be left behind, would be at risk. Dutch felt a migraine budding behind his eyes; to find one wayward son, he risked the capture and execution of another, not to mention the destruction of his lifelong friend and partner.

Try as he might to rationalize it, he just couldn’t convince himself to turn back. They could just barely see the city from where they had set camp, perched atop a cliffside south of Strawberry.

And even now, he turned that photograph over in his grasp. His thumb gently traced where he knew Arthur’s face was— it was far too dark, as the afternoon dimmed into evening, to see the picture clearly, but he might as well have tattooed it to the inside of his eyelids for how often he had admired it over the years. He’d brought it with him, of course he did, something so valuable couldn’t exactly be left behind, and Hosea had packed the precious few other things Arthur had abandoned. He had no idea if Arthur would want them back.

He had no idea if Arthur would want them back.

“I’m such a goddamned fool, Hosea,” Dutch admitted quietly, “I will… If anything has happened to him, I will never forgive myself.”

“Neither will I,” Hosea replied frankly, carding his fingers through John’s hair. Dutch was a little more than taken aback at the man's candor, and watch as Hosea's features sank into a frown, steady and grim. “You ain’t treated him right, Dutch. Not for a long while. Even since before Blackwater, you’ve been pushing people away and letting important things slip right out of your hands. Things you can’t get back. If… If you don’t get it together quick, you’re going to lose more than just Arthur."

"Hosea..."

“I get it,” John replied, quietly. He stared at Dutch, eyes dark and unfathomable in the dimness of night, “I can sympathize. With Arthur, I mean. He… Dutch _you_ …” He quickly glanced at Hosea, wide-eyed, seeking, like a child unsure of how to speak with a stranger, but carried on anyways, “You know how long he’s… he’s…”

Dutch set his jaw tight. His teeth ached.

John swallowed thick against the stones in his throat, “Point is, ever since this gang got big, he’s had to spend every damn second keeping us all alive. Way I figure, Arthur may as well have been on his own for the last year, maybe longer— way I see it, he’s only now made it official.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, son,” Dutch hissed, his voice cold and mean, "Don't be a fool."

John stared at him again, unwavering, unperturbed by the raw malice racing under Dutch’s tone. Perhaps the way he had curled up against Hosea imbued him with some of the older man’s confidence, because in the next moment he'd drawn a half-breath and asked: “What'd you do to his dad?”

At this, the anger fled, replaced with something more innocent and scared. Even Hosea startled, sharing a confused look with Dutch for a moment. When neither man spoke, each clammed up tight, John continued, leaning forwards, hands on his knees, shaking off Hosea's soothing hands.

“I heard you. When you two was fighting. You said you'd— you'd 'do to him what you did to his daddy' and I guess I don’t quite understand what that entails. I mean, I know it weren’t nothin nice, but—”

"What?" a scant whisper from Hosea, broken and small. His face grew dark and disparaged, thunderous. He whipped his head towards Dutch, absolutely stricken, “You _what?_ ”

Dutch's heart thundered in his throat. He parted his lips to speak, but couldn't manage any words that mattered, “Now, hold on, I—“

Without warning, without another word, Hosea stood and left. Dutch stared deep into the roaring fire before them, unable to watch Hosea go. He couldn’t even bring himself to look John in the eye, filled with something similar to guilt, or regret, but not quite either.He breathed out a shaky sigh, again pulled inwards, back into his tempestuous thoughts. After a moment, he pressed one trembling hand into the other and confessed. 

“... I shot him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooood morning, my darling sweet potato fries ♡♡♡
> 
> It's a long one today! Time to catch back up with our favorite outlaws, and also Micah. They finally get ready to set into Blackwater, but is it too little too late? Maybe. But Micah seems really on edge... 
> 
> And I wonder why Hosea was so upset about Dutch revealing something we already know... 
> 
> I hope you're all well! And if you aren't, I love you anyways ♡♡ I'll catch you all on Thursday! ♡


	26. III. V

Lyle Morgan was a scrawny man, one who valued tough looks and calloused hands over tact. He was a thief, though not a particularly good one, usually able to slip out of the grasp of whoever he’d wronged before they could show him what _real_ justice looked like. When he couldn’t get away clean, he begged for mercy and pity, just as happy to reduce himself to a sniveling mess as he was to maim and injure. The man was a coward, prone to cruelty to compensate for impotence, convinced he was unjustly robbed of the greatness he never earned.

And for all that, or perhaps in spite of it, Dutch dragged him out into the bitter Montana night, half-naked and hungover, barely aware of what was going on. To his credit, he kicked and screamed, spitting threats into the frigid air, warnings of what he’d do if he wasn’t let go _right fucking then_. That fire didn’t last too long after Dutch kicked his ribs in and grabbed him by the collar. Dutch was barely seventeen at the time, if that; a young buck with some fancy words and a foul temper, imposing in stature, intellect, and ferocity. He had little trouble dealing with a man so weaselly and wasted as Lyle Morgan. 

Dutch could remember speaking to him; less a conversation than a lecture, less a trial than a sentencing. Even someone so far gone as Lyle Morgan could tell this was a man pushed too far too fast— one who could not be swayed from whatever hell he had set his mind to inflict. Lyle stammered apologies, meaningless words about misunderstandings and mistakes, about desperation and suffering. He had yet to learn what _real_ desperation, _real_ suffering, looked like. Dutch was keen on amending that.

Dutch said something to him, but honestly couldn’t remember what; too wrapped up in the moment to give any thought to his actions beyond _'hurt'_.

He did, however, remember beating the shit out of the man until he was broken enough for Dutch to take a step back without him getting up.

Lyle cursed through broken teeth. He threatened. He blubbered and bargained, swearing he’d give it back— ‘ _it_ ’ was another thing lost to time, but it sure seemed important. He begged. He cried. Dutch lit a match and set that run-down shack— more a pile of sticks held together by dirt and spiderwebs than a house at this point—ablaze. Lyle had holed up there quite long enough; had filled it with his filth and stained it with blood. It caught immediately, and Lyle’s mangled wail only got louder and more pitiful, assuring Dutch he’d done the right thing. Whether _‘it’_ was in that old shed or lost somewhere out in the vast wilderness of Montana, nobody would ever know.

He dragged Lyle Morgan, quite literally, into that small boomtown they’d set up in, and threw his body into the street, soaked with piss, blood, and tears. Though the streets were largely empty owing to the late hour, Dutch had already drawn a crowd with the very beginnings of a boisterous speech, punctured by Lyle’s strangled cries.

A crowd that included a scrawny eleven-year-old boy with nothing left in the world but the bruises on his cheeks and fresh burns on his hands. Dutch hadn’t known— how _could_ he— that the kid had been watching.He hadn’t even known there was a kid _to_ witness what came next. Had he paid any sort of attention he might have— but attention wasn’t what got him here in the first place.

Dutch offered Lyle to the folks in the streets, recommending they settle any scores now before it’s too late. When none stepped forward, he slapped that black gambler hat onto Lyle’s head, uttering the words _‘smile, cowboy’_ low enough for only Lyle to hear.

He shot Lyle Morgan on that street and left him there.

Everyone left him there.

They took Lyle’s body after a while, opting to throw it in a hole without a marker, but they left _him_ there in that street, clutching his father’s hat and trembling like a leaf. Numb. Conflicted. He kicked his father’s body hard, right in the gut, before it was dragged away, and then sat on the curb to cry until sunrise. Dutch, of course, knew none of this, as he never stepped foot in that town again.

And he said as much aloud, as though speaking thoughtlessly into the wind.

John stared at him, wide-eyed, as Dutch fell quiet, eyes far away but fixed on the flickering fire.

“What the _fuck_ ,” John whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, “You— _right in front of him_?”

“I didn’t know at the time, I swear. If I had known he had a kid, I would’ve—“ he would have done the exact same thing, and he knew it. Dutch stared at his hands as though he could still feel the weight of his old cattleman in his palm. He wondered if Arthur still had it.

Rarely was Dutch one for such open displays of wanton cruelty, much less outright, cold-blooded murder. John wasn’t necessarily surprised, he’d seen what happened to Heidi McCourt, but to hear it so blatantly described by the man himself, no smoke or mirrors to distract from the ugly core, was… unusual.

“What the hell did he do to you to deserve all that?” John asked, almost unbelieving.

“You know—I... I don’t quite remember.”

“You _executed_ his father,” John hissed, “You made him a damn _orphan_ and you don’t even remember why?”

He’d fucked up, is what. Trusted the wrong person one too many times, used those fancy words of his, still rough and unpracticed, to make a mess of things once again and nearly got Hosea killed for it. He remembered that much. Remembered how he’d been swept up in the rage and indignity of it all, embarrassed by his own monumental failing even all these years later. But beyond that? For the life of him, he didn’t know _what_ might have set off such a volatile incident.

Hosea had never quite forgiven him. When he found out about Dutch’s makeshift execution, he flew into a rage so potent he ripped out the stitches Dutch had so painstakingly put in place and reopened the wound Lyle had given him. When, years later, they learned that the young boy Dutch had so carelessly orphaned was now sat by their campfire, too thin, too scared, too lost, he only dwarfed his prior fury. That particular fire never quite tempered; to this day, the mere mention of Arthur’s father set Hosea on edge, peeling open old scars. But Dutch _hadn’t_ known, not at the time, and he had lived with the consequences of his hotheadedness.

Dutch pursed his lips into a tight frown. Try as he might, the words to tell that awful story simply wouldn’t come, driven away by the years between that night and this one. He couldn’t even muster up an excuse. Instead, he settled on, “… Get some rest, John. We have an early start.”

Bill and John set out for Blackwater the next morning, carefully clothed in the closest approximations to disguises that Hosea could pull together. Dutch flitted about nervously as they set off, obsessively reminding them of the plan: get in, get out, get back by sundown. John still couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.

Neither could Hosea, who had spent the better part of the night dragging Dutch into the woods and screaming at him until he dissolved into one of the most violent coughing fits Dutch had ever seen. For once, Dutch let him, unable or unwilling to speak a word in his own defense, only breaking his stupor to rub circles into the older man's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning my darling little turtles ♡♡♡
> 
> For anyone keeping track, Dutch had been with Hosea for little less than a year when he killed Lyle. Hadn’t quite smoothed down that temper of his… 
> 
> Be good, my dear, sweet bumblebee bats, as I type this I'm filling these words with hella positive vibes- take what you need, I've got plenty ♡
> 
> I'll see you on Sunday, lovelies ♡♡♡ Take care!


	27. III. VI

If Micah didn’t stop complaining, Hosea was going to beat him to death with his coffee mug. 

The man had been moaning nonstop, clearly on edge and antsy and keen to make it everyone else’s problem. Hosea disliked him on a good day; this was not a good day. Even Dutch had been worn thin by Micah's caterwauling and it was starting to show in the deep lines dug into the man's face.

_“Every minute we’re sitting here is another minute closer to the end of a rope, Boss!”_

Micah had been complaining for the past few hours, ceasing his pitiful lamentation when Hosea snapped at him only to pick it up again within minutes. His bewailing had only deepened the headache set behind Hosea’s eyes, dry and burning like wildfire. 

John and Bill had set off early that morning, following a pre-dawn lecture by Dutch going over the plan once more.

Get in. Get out. Don’t get noticed, don't get caught, avoid the east side of town, be back before sundown.

He’d repeated this eight more times until John and Bill were desperate to throw themselves in harm’s way. Hosea had disguised the men as best as he could manage; he prayed it would be enough. 

Dutch watched them go, rolling the earth under his feet. Left, right, left again, as though his vigilance might somehow bring them back safe even a moment sooner. He waited, refusing to look away until they had disappeared over the gently rolling landscape and into the city proper, and waited longer still. He’d been staring out at the open plains across the Dakota for nearly an hour now, unable to still himself.

Between Dutch’s borderline obsessive pacing and Micah’s bellyaching, Hosea almost wished he’d gone into Blackwater himself.

“Sit, Dutch,” Hosea asked, patting the ground beside him, ignoring the rage that still festered in his gut from the night before in favor of soothing Dutch's blatant distress. He could, and would, be angry later. “Take a load off. Have some coffee.”

Dutch stared pensively at the very edges of Blackwater. 

“ _Take a load off_ …” Micah spat, pointedly cleaning his guns, “We’re sitting in a goddamned war zone, and he’s supposed to _take a load off._ ”

“I would _love_ some coffee,” Dutch bit out, disgustingly saccharine, “Sweetened by your company, my friend. It is a beautiful day, after all. We may as well enjoy it.”

Too sweet, too effusive, Hosea decided, for the dismal expression plastered across Dutch’s face. Hosea knew what one of Dutch’s ‘bad days’ looked like, and had no trouble recognizing a blatant attempt to resist the depths he knew Dutch was surely being dragged down into— and perhaps he felt a _little_ bad about feeding into that foul mood himself with his tirade the night before. 

“Gonna be some damn bitter coffee then,” Hosea joked, pouring Dutch a mug. He offered a jovial smile, as playful as he could manage, “But since you’re in such a good mood, I won’t even spit in it.”

Dutch chuckled, a small, far-away sound, broken by Micah’s groan and nearly audible eye-roll.

“Yeah, let’s all have a _picnic_. And when the law shows, we can offer them some _tea_ and a slice of _cake_.”

“Oh, for the love of…”

“Is there a _problem_ , Mr. Bell?” Dutch asked, gripping his coffee so tight the metal mug bowed slightly under his fingers.

“Dutch, you know I love Arthur as I do my own brother,” Micah’s tone softened immediately in a way that turned Hosea’s stomach. He sipped his coffee to ease the feeling, but found it did little to stifle the sudden nausea. Micah rested a hand, gently, pervasively, on Dutch’s shoulder as he spoke, his features twisting into the closest approximation to concern and understanding as the man could manage. “Despite his _unusual_ _disposition_ , he and I— why, we’re two peas in a pod! But this— this is a _dangerous_ play, Dutch, and you know it. For all we know— and I mean no disrespect, I just want what’s best for everyone— But for all we know, he might be dead in a ditch someplace, and—”

Hosea saw something in Dutch’s face break. His coffee was discarded and forgotten, soaking into the dirt. Without a word, he drove his fist into Micah’s jaw.

Micah crumbled to the ground with a yelp, scrambling backwards, his skin split from the bite of Dutch’s rings. Dutch towered over him, glowering down with such a fierceness that even Hosea was set on edge.

“ _Are you quite done, Mr. Bell?_ “

“ _Fuck—”_ he clutched his surely bruised jaw, eyes wide as saucers, “Boss, I— I ain’t— I swear I didn’t—“ Micah made himself small; non-threatening, but Dutch still loomed over him like an ill omen. He swallowed back whatever words had nearly bubbled out.

“ _Good_ , then how about you shut the hell up for _once_ in your miserable fucking life. I have had quite enough of your goddamned _whining_ , you sniveling little shit!”

“Sorry, Boss, I just— _I care about_ —“

“ _What the hell did I just say?_ Shut your _goddamn_ mouth or I will _ensure_ you never open it again.”

Dutch’s hand fell to his revolver threateningly. Micah’s wide eyes followed. His eyes flickered up to Dutch's face, searching, but only found wrath and revulsion. 

Micah’s jaw snapped shut, curling into a snarl like a scolded child. Hosea didn’t bother hiding his amusement at seeing the man tuck his tail and slink off to the very edge of their little camp. To his surprise, Dutch, too, stalked off, fists still curled tightly. Hosea finished his coffee in silence, content to let Dutch cool off alone and more than happy to watch Micah lick his wounds.

Two hours later, though, and Dutch had yet to return from wherever he had stormed off to. As the minutes ticked by, Hosea finally couldn’t bear the uncertainty any longer, and set off after him. He found Dutch a little ways off in a bluff a good distance from their tiny encampment, sitting with his back against a pine tree. 

“…Dutch?” Hosea called out, unwilling to agitate the man and unsure exactly _which_ Dutch he was approaching. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dutch was still held in the grip of a blind furor. Such an agitated Dutch was a dangerous thing, one even Hosea was hesitant to handle, but as he drew closer, his heart sank, and the traces of anger residual from the night before had dissolved entirely. The crunch of Hosea’s footsteps upon the dried pine needles seemed to startle Dutch slightly. 

If he didn’t know any better, judging by the redness in his eyes and the way he swiped at his cheeks, Hosea would have thought Dutch was crying.

In his hands he held Arthur’s journal, opened to a handsomely drawn portrait of himself. Hosea settled in next to him without a word, admiring the artistry himself. Though the page was stained and smudged, dappled with fingerprints, the Dutch that Arthur had so delicately placed upon it looked… young. Full of life. _Happy_. With the bruises Hamish had left on the man’s face now a sickly maroon and his hair matted in unkempt ringlets around his shoulders, Dutch had lost what regal charm his older age had granted him, a fact only emphasized by the simple radiance of Arthur’s sketch.

“… Can’t remember the last time I looked _half_ that decent,” Dutch chuckled, though the sound was raspy and broken. Closer to a sob, perhaps, than an actual laugh.

“Arthur always had a talent for finding beauty where others couldn’t… or adding it.”

Hosea sat pressed up beside him. For a moment, that was all. His half-hearted attempt at levity went unnoticed. 

“… I miss him, Hosea,” Dutch admitted after a second. There was no trace of weakness or sorrow in his voice; it was stated as mere fact. If anything, Dutch seemed almost surprised by his own words, “There’s… all those things I never… I can’t… without him—I’m… a damn mess.”

“All you can do is try to apologize, Dutch. Try to be better— he… he wouldn’t ask anything more than that.”

 _“What if I can’t?_ ” The words were whispered, like a curse, like a prayer, like Dutch hadn’t wanted anyone, including himself, to hear them spoken.

Hosea drew in a deep breath, leaning a little more heavily on Dutch’s shoulder. He again suffered the glancing blows of rage, but pushed it back the same. He didn’t care to disrupt the fragile precipice Dutch was so precariously balanced on but if he didn’t now, he never would. 

“I... never had children of my own, Dutch,” Hosea began slowly, carefully studying Dutch’s face, “My wife is dead and buried. You, John, and Arthur… that’s all I have in this world. You— I would happily throw down my life to keep the three of you safe, if I could. But if it comes down to it… If you keep on this path— I’m choosing them. If you can’t make this right—“

Silence. The world between them deadened. Dutch couldn’t muster the strength to look Hosea in the eye. Hosea was heavy on Dutch’s shoulder and yet couldn’t feel anything other than the hollowness settled in his chest.

“Don’t make me choose, Dutch. _Please_.”

The rolling thunder of hooves down the road that split between the bluff and the cliff edge where they’d set their camp had both men twitching for their sidearms. The hoofbeats were far too quick, too hurried for a passerby. Both men were gripped with panic at the sound, hurrying back to camp with dread heavy in their stomachs. That panic lessened slightly when Bill and John pushed through the trees, both of the men battered and bruised but alive and un-pursued. All the work Hosea had put into disguising them as high society folk was ruined; even the stolen bifocals he had forced John to wear were shattered and mangled, hanging from his face.

“Dutch! Goddamnit, _Dutch!_ Get over here! You ain’t gonna believe this—“

John stumbled off of Old Boy, breathless. Dutch was at his side in a second, taking a mental tally of the boy’s wounds, his hands worriedly running over him in search of unseen injury. Bill, too, was busted up, grumbling and holding his hand to his chest as he hitched Brown Jack to a nearby tree. Hosea went to fetch the first aid kit without a word.

“What the hell happened?”

“Fucking _Arthur_ happened!” Bill roared, wiping the blood from his split lip, once again cracked open as he spoke, “He sure left us a fine mess!”

“That don’t matter! Dutch—“

“What? He was _there?_ ” Dutch had paled at his words, and all but abandoned John to turn the entirety of his focus to Bill.

“Oh, he was _there_ all right! _Fucking ages ago!_ Got drunk and put two men in the hospital, beat ‘em half to death in the saloon! Bastard’s too crippled to work, but ain’t got no problem starting fucking fights he ain’t about to finish! Oh, but they were keen on taking it out on us! Damn near got us lynched!”

“ _Shut it, Williamson,_ that ain’t—“ John shoved against Bill’s chest, vying desperately for Dutch’s attention.

“But he _was_ there? He— did anyone know where he went? Did you ask—“

“The Pinkertons are _gone_ , Dutch!” John interjected, perhaps louder than he should’ve. Dutch’s mouth snapped closed like a trap.

“… What?”

Even Micah had drawn in close at John’s outburst, eyes wide, busted jaw forgotten.

“They left a while ago,” John felt their eyes burrow into his skin, “Bounty hunters got kicked out, too. Those camps we seen were stragglers, or— or empty. They ain’t looking for us there, since… since they spotted us in New Hanover, I guess. They all went east. Explains the trouble we’ve been having...”

For a moment, they all steeped in John’s words.

The Pinkertons were gone.

The bounty hunters were gone.

Blackwater was empty.

The heavy whispers of a plan sat heavy in their midst, unspoken.

“Dutch,” Micah hissed, face alight with opportunity, “ _Boss_ —”

“… And Arthur?” Dutch asked, his voice quiet and small.

“Oh, _fuck_ Arthur!” Micah bellowed, a wide smile smeared across his face, the man himself breathlessly excited, “Dutch, we can get the money! Ain’t no one there to stop us from waltzing in there and taking what is rightfully _ours_ ! Think about it— Tahiti! Australia! Hell, with that money we could buy our _own_ damn island!”

“John,” Dutch’s voice cracked. His eyes bore into John, a heavy hand fell on the younger man’s shoulder, “What about _Arthur?_ ”

“H-he was there…” John took a step back, watching as rage boiled violently just under Micah’s skin, “Shopkeeper said he was headed west, a little while back; didn’t buy too much, so he figured he was headed for Armadillo or Tumbleweed…”

“ _What the hell are you thinking?_ Ain’t this been the entire damn point? Who cares about Morgan, we got a dozen other mouths to feed! Let’s go in there and get it— hell, just tell me where it is and I’ll do it!”

“ _Mr. Bell, I suggest you watch your mouth!_ ” Dutch roared, once again towering over Micah, “That money ain’t going nowhere. We’re going after Arthur.”

John alone noticed the way Micah’s demeanor had changed in a flash; something dangerous seemed to overcome the man, and for the briefest moment it was as though he had come undone.

Just as quickly, though, Micah seemed to knit himself back together. John's stomach roiled with nausea. 

“John,” Hosea light touched his arm, wincing at the bruises forming on the man’s face, “Did they say when he left? Or— Or anything more about where he was headed, perhaps?”

“It was a while ago; shopkeep only remembered ‘cause Arthur was the only one-armed man he’d seen in a while.”

“He could be halfway through Mexico by now!” Bill whined, pressing a rag to his split lip.

“If Arthur is in Mexico, then we are going to goddamned _Mexico._ I ain’t giving up. Not now.”

“Don’t be a fool, Dutch! Think of the _gang_ ,” Micah pleaded, again dropping to that cloying tone that made Hosea’s skin crawl, “All them _women_ and _children_ … Think of the lives you could give them!”

“Mr. Bell, either you are _with me_ , or you _aren’t,_ ” Dutch dropped into the tone of voice he reserved for only the most dire of threats; it sent a shiver up Hosea’s spine in the worst kind of way, “ _I suggest you decide soon._ ”

Micah stiffened, swallowing thickly against words that simply refused to come. He looked, by some measure, disappointed by Dutch's reaction. All he could manage was a quiet, “Right, Boss...”

If Dutch noticed the venomous glare that bore into his back as he turned, he certainly didn’t mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning my sweet lil' sea urchins ♡♡♡
> 
> Lot happened in this one... Dutch lays the smackdown on Micah. Fuck 'em up, Dutch! Hosea is torn between being a good friend and being a good dad, Micah is... something. Strange again, how he reacts, how many times he pulls the 'women and children' thing... I wonder what he's thinking. Probably about how much he LOVES the gang and everyone in it. 
> 
> It's a beautiful day today, and I love you so, so much ♡♡♡ So enjoy today, and we'll meet back here on Tuesday!!!! Talk soon ♡


	28. III. VII

Arthur pushed open the door once more, sick with dread as it creaked open. Unsurprisingly, the cabin was still wrecked; untouched. Arthur simply stared at the carnage for a moment before Albert pushed by him, toolbox in hand.

“Right, let’s see what we’re working with! A— oh dear, this is quite a wreck. Well, one step at a time, I suppose.”

Arthur still stood in the doorway as Albert began righting tipped over furniture. What was smashed, he pushed to the corner. 

He wondered if this is what it was like for the folks he’d ransacked. If this same empty, nauseating feeling sat in their stomachs too when they saw what he had done. If they felt so powerless in the face of their wrecked homes. If they had someone like Albert to help put it all back together, or if they somehow had to manage on their own. 

“Arthur, it really would go quicker if you lended a hand; I’m afraid one man can only do so much— doubly so when that man is me. Why don’t you— you can start by, maybe… wiping up the blood, perhaps? Make it all a little less... gruesome…”

“Right.”

It had taken Albert all of five days to recover completely. Arthur had stayed in the saloon during that time and the pair had fallen into somewhat of a routine. He’d have breakfast with Albert and Dewey, the barkeep. During the day, he’d explore the area, sometimes with a sore Albert in tow, others on his own.

Albert had more or less forced Arthur into caring for himself, in that stubborn, focused way of his. Arthur hated every bit of it. 

His mind drifted to that first bath, to the swirling smears of rusty red that snaked off of his skin, and the stray grains of sand that had settled to the bottom. The tension had dissolved out of his muscles alongside grime from his hair, replaced instead by the balmy warmth sinking into his bones.

Immediately, violently, Arthur flinched upwards, scrambling to escape the siren call of the palliative depths. For a moment, for the briefest, worst moment, he had forgotten. About his arm, about the Van der Lines, about Dutch, all of it. The warmth he had leached from the bath was gone in that instant, leaving him cold, useless, and alone. 

Beyond that, beyond _Albert_ , Arthur kept his head down, filling himself with distractions; he wouldn’t so much as think about that cabin or the letter he still hadn’t sent to Hamish because those thoughts were cancerous. He’d written, and re-written, and scrapped that letter and written it anew, at least six times, and the words never sounded quite right. He was careful to burn the discarded drafts and staunchly refused to think on the subject any longer. 

When Albert had recovered and once again felt the itch of sedentism more vividly than he did the sting of cholla spines, he all but demanded Arthur take him to lake Don Julio to see this cabin. A promise of repayment, he said, one he was keen to see through. Arthur, perhaps as weak now in the mind as in the body, agreed.

Despite the man's bullheaded ways, Arthur liked Albert. Once, a long while ago, he thought perhaps he sensed in the man a kind of kindred spirit. He found the man’s clumsy ways almost endearing, and his dedication to his trade was second to none. The way his eyes sparkled when he talked about cameras, how he set his mind and saw the world as a living canvas, all of it was painfully endearing. He liked Albert, and if the man had ever looked up from his work long enough, perhaps Albert would have liked him, too. 

But _this_ was a mistake. 

Watching Albert jabber endlessly as he set right what thieves had fouled— thieves like Arthur— felt _wrong_. It should be him carefully picking glass out of the floorboards; he should be the one screwing cabinets to their hinges and sliding drawers back in place.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t.

His arm burned with a fulminant ache.

“Arthur?” He hadn’t even realized Albert had stopped his chatter and had instead been staring at him expectantly, “Are you quite all right?”

“‘M fine. Sorry, Mr. Mason, go on, what was you saying?”

“I’m not a complete fool, Arthur. I can tell something has been on your mind, and my ceaseless blather exhausts even me at times. Why not share some of your burden? Fill the air a little; you know I'm always happy to listen, if you want to.”

Oddly enough, he _did_ want to. Albert was the kind of man willing to sop up spilled woes. He was disarming enough to ease even the most vicious bastard into telling his tale, and Arthur simply couldn’t help himself, the words fumbling out of him before he realized.

“Busted my arm; that ain't great. Ain't slept in awhile. I, uh... got in a nasty fight with… with someone important to me. And I couldn’t stay there anymore. Even with all the hell we’ve been through, and even though he’s got me out this far, I…I don’t know,” Arthur swallowed back against the tightness in his throat, hoping the waver in his voice would go unanswered, hoping the way his voice died into a scant whisper went ignored, “I guess I just... I’m… scared.”

Albert laughed. One single, stifled laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I do hope you’ll pardon my frankness, Arthur but... but you may be the most capable man I’ve ever met. You are a force of nature, as they say— I mean, you’ve spent all that time in the woods woods keeping yourself alive, and me along with you, which is perhaps more impressive, without once relying on anyone. I’m afraid I’m just having a hard time imagining that you could ever _need_ anyone else.”

Arthur balked at the statement, walking the very thin line between offended and flattered. Albert carried on as though discussing the weather; as though he hadn’t seen the way Arthur’s face twisted.

“I guess—“

“I’m not saying you don’t want them, or don’t enjoy the company of others; in fact, from what I’ve seen you’re quite sociable. What I mean is, well…. I admire you, Arthur. You’re capable beyond most men’s wildest imaginations, and I do hate to see you caught up on others to the detriment of yourself.”

On any other day, Arthur might have warmed at those words, and a bashful blush would have undoubtedly crept into his cheeks. Instead, he was overcome with the desire to crush Albert Mason’s throat in his grip. 

“Goodness, I am quite sorry— I didn’t mean to— silly me, carrying on about nonsense I know nothing about. Mother always told me if I didn’t learn to keep to my business, I’d end up ostracized and penniless— I suppose she was right, in a way.” 

“It's… fine, Mr. Mason.”

“This _is_ quite a beautiful little homestead you have here, if you can look past the filth. Are you staying here long?”

Dread weighed in his stomach.

“I don’t… know.”

“Well, if you haven’t a definite plan, I should enjoy your company myself, if you don’t mind. I myself am headed west after all. I’ve heard tell of bears in California with golden hides, big as horses, though I’m not quite sure I believe that. I should like to see one for myself before they’re gone, if you’d care to join me….”

Arthur blinked; his arm screamed. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his cheek. A thousand awful thoughts raced through his head; rioting, angry, violent. Instead, he settled on, “Oh, Mr. Mason I… don’t want to impose.”

“Impose?” Albert parroted, only half paying attention as usual. Something clicked in his mind as he suddenly jolted with wide eyes, “No, I apologize, quite the opposite really. I mean to hire you, if you’d allow me. To pay you for your services— to keep me from getting eaten. Believe it or not, I do still work when you aren’t around, and dare I say I’ve suffered quite a few, erm, close calls. If I could persuade you to join me on a more permanent basis, perhaps extend my life by a few years.”

“You’re… You’re offering me a job?”

“Begging for your assistance, more like. I suspect I shan’t be done with this project for a few years still, but seeing as you’re displaced at the moment I thought it best to snatch you up before someone else could. Having someone accompany me who is a great deal more familiar with the wilds of this country would be invaluable, and should my work become popular I should like to see you credited on it as well so you, too can reap the rewards. Of course, the real reward will be seeing these amazing animals preserved and protected, but monetary payment is always nice as well.”

Oddly enough, that same feeling of wanting to watch the life drain from Albert’s eyes was back. 

“Mr. Mason, that’s too much, I couldn’t ask for all that… I’m not even sure how useful I’ll be with… with…”

Albert smiled; a precious, brilliant thing, “Nonsense, your presence and wisdom is more than enough. None of these photographs would have been possible without you. And rest assured, you will be paid a salary! Let’s see, a fair rate, what do you say, eight dollars each day I require your assistance? I’ve no idea what a man with your skills makes these days, but I can assure you, it is rare I take a day off so you shan’t go hungry, that’s for certain. I should pay you for the work you’ve done so far, of course.” 

There was something in Albert’s words that set warmly into Arthur’s skin, a feeling he hadn’t known in a very long time. Something about the way his eyes lit up, kind and bright, buried into Arthur’s chest. It was the promise of security, perhaps, or something fonder in the tone of his voice. Those same sticky, delicate things he’d felt all those weeks ago, tamped down by Albert’s disinterest, began to trickle and well once more; vague, and small, and impossible, but there. He grabbed on tight, before the feeling was chased away by something bigger and meaner, as all such thoughts were.

“ _Eight dollars a day?_ ” Arthur forced a hearty chuckle, “For what, keeping you outta a bear’s stomach? Damn, Mason, where the hell would you get that kind of funding?”

“My family, Mr. Morgan, and my own savings. I can assure you, you will always be compensated well for your time, if you should accept.”

“I…” Arthur dug his fingers into his arm as hard as he could manage, “Can I… Let me think on it.”

“Oh, of course! I’m not quite finished here yet, though I suppose I’ll set off from New Austin by the month’s end. If you’d like, you are welcome to accompany me until then, I’m on the trail of bobcats, you see.” 

“ _Bobcats?_ ”

“Yes! Fascinating creatures, and slightly less dangerous than cougars, or so I’m told. A friendly gentleman south of Strawberry told me of one with a coat black as pitch, if you can imagine such a thing.”

Albert carried on, spouting about poachers and skins, of animals and art, but Arthur didn’t hear a word of it over the buzzing in his ears.

Albert left before sundown, eager to make it back into town by nightfall. By the time he left, Hamish’s cabin had been returned to some semblance of order. What furniture wasn’t broken was put in place, and anything in need of repairs was set outside for another day. The windows were still broken, and the roof was sure to leak on the odd occasion New Austin was graced with rain, but it was livable. Manageable. _Fine._

Fingers numb, he plucked the photograph of his mother from its place in his satchel, wrapped in one of his shirts for safe keeping. Arthur ran his thumb along her face, pausing to refresh her in his memory as he had done so many times before. The softness in her eyes, the gentle curve of her nose— he remembered it would crinkle when she laughed— every curl in her hair, every freckle on her cheeks. He’d long since forgotten her voice; try as he might to remember, all he heard was his father. 

What might she think of what he had become?

The cabin was quietly engulfed by the inky slick of night. If tears spilled down his cheeks, if his breaths hitched into pathetic sobs as he laid there in the dark, clutching that picture of his mother tight, well, at least there was nobody around to see. 

Arthur returned to Armadillo just as the sun rose the next morning, hat pulled low against the burn of the sun.

And if he didn’t know any better, he’d’ve thought Doc was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning, my feisty little fireweeds! ♡♡♡
> 
> Albert offers Arthur a job, and Arthur finally realizes there's more out there for him. He realizes he's a little less lost. Wonder if he'll take it, it's a pretty sweet gig. 
> 
> But what matters is that he's been inspired. We all need an Albert Mason in our lives. 
> 
> And look, he's talking to the doctor again! I hope they become good friends too :3
> 
> Ah... 
> 
> You lovely little lemons, I hope your day is sweet as sugar! You are important, you are kind, you are loved, and you are welcome here always. Always. I'll see you on Thursday, my dears! ♡♡♡


	29. III. VIII

The fire crackled and popped at his feet. 

Dutch sat alone beneath the vast, empty sky, his gaze fixated on the fire he tended. 

Hosea had long since gone to bed, offering nothing more than a mournful pat on Dutch’s shoulder in parting. Bill’s noisy snores rumbled through the thin desert air. Micah, too, had slunk off, keen on keeping distance from Dutch since they left Blackwater, pouting all the while. To say Dutch didn’t mind was an understatement. 

So Dutch sat alone, heavy in thought. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite decide what thoughts those were, each too intangible and far too elusive to be defined. They weighed on him nonetheless. 

Arthur journal was nearby. It always was these days. He didn’t let it out of his sight, spending any spare moment he could manage poring through it, as though Arthur had left a detailed map showing where he had gone, and Dutch was simply too foolish to see it. 

But he couldn’t stomach it right now— couldn’t stomach thoughts of him.

So he sat. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Dutch frowned at John’s approach but otherwise didn’t acknowledge him. The man had turned in hours ago, yet sounded just as tired as Dutch felt.

John sat beside him in the dust, within reach but still too far. He didn’t look at Dutch, and Dutch wasn’t surprised. They hadn’t spoken in days. Not since Blackwater. He’d told John about Arthur’s father— a foolish choice in hindsight, but one he made nonetheless— and the sheer contempt in John’s eyes was almost enough to make Dutch wish he’d never put Lyle Morgan in the ground.

Almost.

They sat like that, barely an arm’s length away yet somehow miles apart, in complete silence. 

“You all right?” John asked, low and steady. 

“No.”

John lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag. Crickets in the distance carried along with their droning call. He tilted his head back, staring up at the carpet of stars overhead as he blew a puff of smoke, pale enough to match the lone cloud drifting aimlessly just above them, perfectly poised to block out the moon. 

“Nice night,” Dutch offered, knowing it was nothing more than a weak attempt to regain what favor he had lost. 

John didn’t respond; the fire filled the silence between them Finally, agonizingly, John asked: “You think we’re gonna get him back?”

Dutch drew a deep breath, lungs burning with the dry air, tinged with smoke, “Of course we will. We won’t stop until Arthur is home safe and sound. _I_ won’t stop.” The certainty of his tone was undermined by the grievous sorrow that hung upon his features.

John turned to stare at him, dark eyes impossibly darker in the dead of night. Dutch matched his stare, but found himself unable to read the odd expression on his face. 

“What, you don’t think so?”

John turned that unfathomable gaze back towards the fire. The flickering glow thrown across his scars cast strange shadows over his face, “Don’t matter what I think, Dutch.”

Dutch’s brows furrowed slightly, and something similar to confusion edged into his tone. He eyed John warily, suddenly feeling as though he had entered a dangerous conversation. He picked his words carefully.

“… With you gentlemen by my side, son, there ain’t a thing on this earth that can stop me from getting our boy back. You doubting me?”

Another drag of his cigarette; another puff of smoke to swirl into the stars.

“Seems we got a misunderstanding. I ain’t here to bring him back,” John let out a soft sigh, “I’m here to make sure you _don’t_.”

With that, Dutch understood the expression smeared across John’s face. Defiance, willful betrayal, _opposition._ His blood ran thick and cold. 

_“Excuse me?”_

“I mean, I’ll help you find him, but if you think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you keep on usin’ him like you have been, you’re dead wrong. Dutch, I done a lot for you. Lot of _bad_ shit. I love you. But I ain’t about to let you hurt Arthur again.”

“Don’t involve yourself in matters you don’t understand, John.”

John’s eyes burned black as tar, boring into Dutch. He raised his voice, breaking the low whisper they’d maintained, “You ain’t laying a finger on my goddamned brother again, you understand _that_ ? I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. If Arthur wants—“

“I don’t give a shit _what_ Arthur wants. He ain’t exactly got the best judgement when it comes to _wanting_ . He ain’t coming back. Make no mistake Dutch, if it comes down to it, I _will_ kill you if I have to.”

John snubbed out his cigarette in the dirt, leaving Dutch alone once more. Even the crickets had stopped.

They parted ways the next morning, as planned. 

_Cover more ground that way_ , Hosea had assured the gang. Hosea and John would head straight to Tumbleweed in the hopes they'd catch Arthur there; they’d heard rumor that the law there was particularly vicious, hardly a place for one of the most notorious outlaws in the country and two troublemaking fire-starters. Armadillo, on the other hand, was dangerous and lawless; perfect for Dutch, Bill, and Micah to blend in with the pugnacious crowd without issue. They’d meet up again in two weeks, regardless of what they found; enough time to search the towns and surrounding area thoroughly for any signs of Arthur. If anyone found anything, they’d immediately send out a rider to gather the others. 

It was too slow; too drawn out for Dutch’s taste, and he certainly despised the idea of Hosea going off without him, but it was the best plan they could come up with— their best chance at finding Arthur before he disappeared for good. He hadn’t wanted to send them off, hadn’t wanted to entertain the idea of splitting his family further, but he couldn’t suffer their doubt any longer. 

Dutch was in another of his irreparably foul moods. Despite Hosea’s assurance that it wasn’t necessary, he was up with them, helping them to pack in silence while Bill and Micah slept. Where he could, he stole small touches and reassuring smiles from Hosea. 

Dutch pressed his chest against Hosea’s back, arms wrapped around the man, holding him tight. He rested his forehead in the crook of Hosea’s neck— a familiar gesture, but not one Hosea had known in a long while. 

“It’ll be fine,” Hosea offered, “Things are going to work out. Whatever it takes, we’re going to get our boy.”

John stood back and glowered, his pensive glare saying more than the man himself ever could. Dutch peeled away from Hosea and laid a hand on John’s shoulder anyways, offering a steady squeeze. His hand slipped to John’s cheek. To his surprise, the man didn’t make an attempt to duck away.

“Please… both of you… Stay safe. Don’t… don’t—”

“We’ll see you soon, Dutch,” Hosea gave Dutch’s other hand a squeeze, “You and Arthur both. You’ll make this right. You three be safe, all right? These parts are crawling with all types of unpleasant folk. Don’t let nobody go off alone.”

John and Hosea left just before dawn. 

Dutch watched them go, not daring to look away until the pair of them disappeared into the twilit desert landscape of New Austin. 

Once they were well and truly out of sight, and he’d eased the tightness in his throat, he kicked Micah and Bill awake, scowl etched across his face. 

By the day’s end, he sat perched atop The Count, staring down at the dotted buildings that made up Armadillo, burning with cold indifference. He ran a hand over his sweat-matted hair. Dutch clenched his jaw tight. His voice thick and low, he offered a simple command, sending Micah and Bill surging ahead:

_“Find him.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning, my scintillating sunflowers ♡♡♡
> 
> Welcome to the beginning of the end. 
> 
> No words of wisdom, I've got quite the headache today, but I still love each and every one of you ♡♡♡♡
> 
> See you on Sunday, darlings!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡


	30. III. IX

Not one goddamned person would talk to him. Not a single one. Plead, swindle, and threaten as he might, the folks in town all paled at his questioning, either swearing up and down that they didn’t know what he was talking about and had never seen a man fitting that description in their entire lives, or blatantly turning away and ignoring him.

The barkeep at the saloon had done both.

He was cold and distant from the moment Dutch walked in, a problem quickly remedied with an enticing stack of cash laid on the counter. Of course, as soon as he started up his questioning, wondering if the man had seen anyone even slightly fitting Arthur’s description, he clammed up— left the money where it was and told Dutch he was uninterested in getting himself involved in any kind of trouble.

After that, no amount of coercion could weasel a response out of the man. He served Dutch his drinks, but the interaction was stilted and short. The barkeep had taken up a quiet conversation with the piano player, and even he stared at Dutch with cold, untrusting eyes. Besides the three of them, the place was entirely empty.

What’s worse, the morning heat had thoroughly seeped into the saloon. Dutch could withstand a great many things, but heat? Stickiness? Griminess? Never. He slicked back his sweat-soaked hair, abhorring the feeling of his clothes adhering to his skin.

They’d only been there a day and a half and Dutch was already considering burning Armadillo to the ground and sifting through the ashes.

For now, though, he just drank, despite the early hour. He hoped Micah and Bill were having more luck; he’d set them to search the surrounding area for signs of Arthur, and they’d done so dutifully, but the desert was vast and storied. There were too many places for Arthur to have holed up in; too many desiccated farms, too many abandoned buildings, too many caves and empty mines.

If Arthur was even here.

If he was even still—

Dutch threw back a shot to break the thought before it finished, and the barkeep had another at the ready.

So consumed by his own foul mood, he barely noticed as a slight man descended from the rented rooms upstairs. He greeted the barkeep, interrupting his hushed conversation with the piano player; a posh accent, one that stood out a little _too_ much this far west, caught Dutch’s attention.

“Good morning, Dewey, Reid!”

Dutch groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face; he had grown to rather enjoy the terse silence of the saloon. He sipped at his whiskey, finding it appropriately bitter and watered down.

“Morning, Mr. Mason. Leaving already?”

“Yes, well, no rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

“Any luck finding that— what was it you was after? A cougar?”

“Coatimundi, actually! And no, the beauty evades me still… But not to worry! I have a very good feeling about today!”

“Ain’t worried, pal. Just makin’ conversation. Want your usual?”

“That would be wonderful, Dewey! Thank you!”

Dutch bristled, feeling the barkeep set a sly, pointed gaze upon him. He kept his eyes glued to the table. The barkeep ducked back into the kitchen, clearly hesitant to leave his guest alone.

“Excuse me, sir…”

And suddenly that accent was directed at him. Dutch looked up from his drink with a miserable scowl, but the man was unperturbed. It was slightly unsettling; most men would’ve crumbled. This one, however, simply stared at him not unlike a curious puppy.

“Uh— pardon me for saying so, but you look... well, frankly, you look miserable. Are you all right?”

Dutch let out a sigh, gripping his glass tight, “Frankly, I _am_ miserable.”

The man nodded at this, but the slight grin never quite left his face entirely. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” and the sincerity in his voice led Dutch to believe that he actually meant to listen, “I’ve known my fair share of suffering, and I am apparently quite adept at offering advice, or so I’ve been told.”

Dutch could have laughed. Men like this didn’t know _suffering_. Instead, he gestured towards the chair across from him with a grumbled, “If you’re buyin’…”

And the man took it eagerly, calling the barkeep for two shots of gin. That wrenched a little smile out of him. The way the barkeep stared wide-eyed at the pair chased that grin away just as quickly. 

“Albert Mason,” Albert extended a hand. Dutch took it hesitantly.

“… Aiden O’Malley.”

“What brings you out to Armadillo, Aiden?” Albert sipped at his drink, “ I’m not sure I’ve seen you around before.”

“… Passin’ through. Why, you from around here?”

“Hardly, I’ve been here less than a month. I’m a photographer, set out to capture some of the country’s most dangerous creatures before they are cruelly forced into extinction by the hand of man.”

Dutch stared at him, eyebrows raised. A naturalist he was not; Albert looked far too clean-cut and proper to pass as any kind of survivalist. For a brief moment and nothing more, the misery was gone, replaced with amusement.

“… you?”

Albert chuckled to himself, feeling a bloom of warmth in his chest.

“What’s so funny?” Dutch bit, less than keen on being laughed at by a stranger he could snap in half.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing at all. You just... quite reminded me of someone. He looked at me the exact same way. Tell me, Aiden, you traveling for business or pleasure? I’m quite well travelled myself, always happy to share stories! Or offering advice, if you’re keen to stay in the area for a while, I’ve been here a few weeks myself.”

Opportunity. Finally, someone in this fucking hellscape who might know something, anything, about Arthur. More than that, though, something smaller inside of him whispered. Vulnerability. Anonymity. A chance to spill his woes to a man who’s opinion of him didn’t matter in the slightest.

And maybe, just maybe, Dutch was a little drunk.

“… I’m… looking for someone,” Dutch admitted after a moment, “Friend of mine, big feller, blonde, scar right here—“ he tapped his chin right where Arthur’s scar sat, “— got a little… lost.”

“That so?” Albert seemed to stare right through him before swirling his drink a little, “Well, you look lost yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Dutch choked out a single, hollow laugh, “You are right about that. I truly made a colossal mess of things, when he had been nothing but loyal. I fear I may have ruined perhaps the greatest friendship I have ever known— lost the best man I…. I heard tell he might’ve come down this way and had to… I had to at least attempt to make reparations.”

“Well, if he came all this way, I expect it might take more than an apology, but it seems you’re off to a good start. He certainly is lucky to have a friend like you.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Not many people would come all this way just to right a wrong. Surely, this friend is entitled to his discretion regarding forgiveness, but you should at least take comfort in knowing that you are doing all you can to earn it. And even if he can’t offer forgiveness, there is a peace in self forgiveness as well, accepting one's faults and working to improve upon them for its own sake.”

Strangely, in that moment, Dutch thought of Hosea, though he couldn’t quite place why.

“Wise words, Albert.”

At that moment, the barkeep slammed another shot onto their table loudly. He set eyes heavily upon Albert, jaw set and shoulders tense. If he noticed the way Dutch’s lip curled in disgust, he certainly offered no acknowledgement. Dutch didn’t miss the way the barkeep glared, tense as ever, a strange look of anger brushing over his face.

“Ain’t you got someplace to be, Mr. Mason?”

“Have I? Oh, god, yes, thank you, Dewey!” he offered Dutch the very smallest of smiles, “Chin up, friend. The universe provides, as they say, and if it weren’t merciful at its core I might not be here to tell of it.”

With that, Albert left, disappearing back into the streets of Armadillo, leaving Dutch to glower at Dewey over his drink. Within minutes, or maybe hours, he’d honestly lost track, he was disrupted yet again.

“Find anything, boss?”

Dutch threw back his shot, offering Bill only the most cursory of glances.

“Entire town’s shut up tight. Might have to get a little creative... Micah?”

“Left him outside, still goddamned pouting. Killed _two_ men while we were out! And if I have to listen to him bitch and moan about the _goddamned_ Blackwater money for one more minute I swear I’ll—“

Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose and quieted him with a wave, “I truly do not want to hear it.”

Despite the buzz in his ears and the headache behind his eyes, for once Dutch meant every word. Honestly, he was half tempted to leave Micah in the desert for the coyotes. But that could wait. First, he had to find his boy.

He could figure the rest out from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, you beautiful, plump little frogs! ♡♡♡
> 
> I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Albert Mason has zero self-preservation skills. And a habit for charming dangerous men. Interesting that Dutch didn't recognize him, given how thoroughly he went through Arthur's journal...
> 
> I know things are tough right now. I do. But I also know that *you're* tough, and even when you don't feel tough, you're so thoroughly loved. But remember, lovelies: you can't be tough all the time. It's okay to take a break! Let your hair down! ♡
> 
> I love you! And I'll see you on Tuesday! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡


	31. III. X

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to morning in New Austin. He didn’t particularly care to. The sun rose unforgivingly as always; it bore down upon him, boiling his blood and baking into his skin. Regardless, he tacked up Odessa just as the sky bloomed in bright pink and orange. 

The cabin was nearly complete. The windows had been replaced, the fractured boards and posts repaired, and between Albert and Arthur, nearly all of the furniture that had been smashed had been mended. Albert left Arthur to handle the decoration; beyond the photograph of his mother and the picture of the wolves that had almost eaten both of them, the cabin was devoid of personal touch.

Arthur wasn’t keen on explaining why. 

Regardless, every time Albert stopped by, he made a comment about adding “personality” and “color” to the room; he went as far as stopping one evening while they walked around the lake, chatting about everything and nothing at all, to pick wildflowers that dotted the banks.

“As much as I loathe destroying what beauty nature provides,” he explained, filling Arthur’s pockets with poppies, mace, aster, and brown-eyed Susan, “That cabin is _dreadful._ ”

He wasn’t wrong, and the flowers did look rather nice before they shrivelled. 

They’d fallen into a comfortable routine, he and Albert. Each morning, Arthur would pick his way over to their makeshift camp in Cholla Springs— not more than a fire pit he’d dug out and a small canvas tent. There, without fail, he’d find Albert, camera at the ready and damn near vibrating with excitement. They’d spend the day searching for whatever animal caught Albert’s whimsy, most recently the coatimundi— though Arthur passed most of it sleeping in any patch of shade he could find, hat pulled low over his eyes. They’d share a lunch and Arthur would escort Albert back to Armadillo by nightfall. 

Cholla Springs was hardly as dangerous as he’d thought. Sure, he’d chased off his fair share of coyotes, and once had to draw on a pair of Del Lobos that had stopped him and Albert on their way back into town, but over all? He liked it. This little life he’d carved out for himself in New Austin was quiet, but good. Not that he planned to stay any longer than strictly necessary, but as the days drew on and his chest hurt less and less, Arthur slowly came to the realization that, perhaps, there _was_ something out there for him.

It was strange to stay in one place for so long; to have four walls and a bed all to himself, a legitimate home to return to each night and set out from each day, but as days wore on and the soreness in his shoulder waned, he found he didn’t terribly mind it. He came to know the folks in town, and slowly they warmed to his presence, a few offering friendly waves and quiet greetings each morning. Even the doctor, foul-tempered as he was, had invited Arthur for dinner one night. 

He wasn’t happy, necessarily, but at least he wasn’t quite so miserable as he had been before. _‘Find new things you ain’t never thought of’_ Hamish had said. As always, the man was right. Guilt prodded at Arthur’s bones. The letter, still unsent, weighed heavily in his breast pocket. 

He’d _finally_ found the right words. 

Well, he found _words_ , whether they were the right words or not he supposed he might never know. He’d considered, briefly, leaving in silence, letting his absence speak for itself, but that simply wasn’t right. Hamish deserved better; he deserved to know that Arthur was okay. He deserved every word of thanks, every apology, and every reassurance that, once Arthur had settled someplace, he’d write. But bad men don’t get happy endings, or so the letter said, and the kind of trouble Arthur was prone to seemed to be contagious. Hamish deserved safety and peace; as long as Arthur was around the man would find neither.

He’d tell Albert the same words, whether they were right or not, when the time came— but that could wait. For today, he’d help Albert with his photographs again, perhaps help a few of the locals with small problems like runaway cattle or lost dogs. Today, he would send that letter and be done with it. 

With a deep, heavy breath, he finished tying a small braid into Odessa’s tail. The pair followed the road into New Austin. He talked to her all the while.

He told her about the west. About how, once this letter is sent, they can go visit some of Arthur’s favorite places. About apple orchards, where Odessa could eat her fill right off the trees, about warm beaches where she can roll in the sun-warmed sand. About the sad places they’d visit because they probably should. 

He told himself about these things, too— reminded himself of the world that lay beyond the deserts of New Austin. Beyond Albert, and Hamish, and the gang.

He talked about Eliza. About Isaac. About his father, though that left quite a sour taste in his mouth. He talked about freedom—the true kind of freedom, he promised her. The real kind. The kind neither of them had ever _really_ tasted, and here they stood at the bare edge of that freedom, waiting for the right moment to plunge down into it.

He and Odessa ducked between the buildings of Armadillo by the time the sun was pinned up into the sky, beating down upon him with a dry hatred. Though the roads had been lifeless and still, the streets were bustling, or as bustling as Armadillo ever was. Folks moved about their day with a nervousness unique to the small town; a wariness beaten into them by years under the thumb of whatever bloodthirsty gang decided to move through and wreak havoc.

Arthur supposed he could sympathize. 

Given the hour, he guessed Albert had already gone to their little base camp. Chances are, the man had forgone breakfast as he was so apt to do. He’d see what Dewey had cooked that morning when he was done in the post office; maybe he could snag a meal for the pair of them. 

He had only just hitched Odessa when his eyes were drawn across the road. 

Gleaming white despite the fine sheen of dust, ears pinned back and hoof digging into the ground— Arthur would know The Count just about anywhere. 

His heart sank, body coursing with raw, potent fear. 

Unbelieving.

 _It could be any white horse,_ he rationalized, _could belong to anyone because it simply wasn’t possible that—_

His stare fell on the behemoth tied beside The Count. Brown Jack. Equally, painfully, terrifyingly recognizable.

Arthur’s stomach turned to lead, his eyes wide. 

His breath came fast, too fast, and thunderous. The streets seemed to close in on him, squeezing tight. He yanked too hard on Odessa’s reins. Her hooves dug into the compacted earth, sending up clouds of dust. 

_God fucking damn it._

Arthur’s mind raced, numb. They found him. Those festering thoughts he'd so cleverly concealed these past many weeks reared up once more, louder; worse. He’d covered his damn tracks so well, had done everything he could think to shake them, and _they’d found him._ He’d run hard and fast _—_ damn near killed himself _and_ Odessa, lived in the grip of fear and pain for all those long weeks, and _they’d found him_.

He stopped Odessa only long enough to violently empty his stomach in the scrubs along the trail. 

Some small, hardened part of him knew in that moment that they’d found Hamish— that they’d gone back to O’Creagh’s Run. Who knows what they might have done to the man?

 _Arthur_ knew. Arthur knew, because he’d put other men through that same hell a dozen times without a second thought.

Maybe Hamish had given in early; maybe he had recognized the danger he faced and happily handed them Arthur in exchange for his own life. He could hardly blame him if he had; hell, Arthur almost _wished_ that Hamish offered him up right away without a fight. 

He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

But _maybe._

Arthur had to believe that, _maybe_ , Hamish had made the smart decision and pointed them this way; that Hamish’s homestead wasn’t now thick with dark stains. That the pelts Hamish cherished so much hadn’t been ruined. That the man wasn’t left, alone, in a heap, choking on his own blood. That the man wasn’t lying beneath the Kelly-green waters of the run in more pieces than Arthur could ever hope to put back together. 

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut against those thoughts, but they continued regardless.

He had to get to Albert. He had to warn him, had to get him as far away from them as possible, because otherwise they might—

They might do to Albert whatever the hell they were going to do to _him_. Whatever the hell they had done to _Hamish._ He pushed hard, tearing across the open desert, cacti biting at his skin and brushing against Odessa’s ankles. Who knows how many Van der Lindes lurked just around the corner. Every shadow a disguise, every bluff an ambush, every crevasse a trap, but Arthur tore through anyways. 

He recalled, far too vividly, the first time Albert had brought him along to this particular spot in the desert. The man had his nose in a compass that didn’t work, following it in circles, muttering all the while about his excellent navigational skills. It had been endearing, if a little frustrating. 

Arthur considered, briefly, that they might already have Albert. If Dutch and Bill were in the saloon, they might’ve snagged the man before he could even make it downstairs. Hell, they could be slowly dismantling the man in Armadillo right now, knowing full well that there was not a single person in that town who would intervene. 

His mind raced in time with his breathing, each thought horrifically derailing in favor of the next, the worse, the darker— he couldn’t grab hold of any in particular. He coursed, he pulsed, with fear, with sorrow and regret and grief and— 

He hadn’t seen Beatrice. The thought was soft and still, but there. Tangible. The mare was usually hitched right out front, draped in a light blanket to keep the sun off of her back. She was nowhere to be seen, so presumably Albert wasn’t there. Presumably, Albert had made it out of the saloon.

Whether someone had followed him, Arthur didn’t dare to guess. 

He was tempted to turn back. To face them head on, and hopefully outdraw whoever had come along with Dutch. Not Dutch himself; even Arthur wasn’t that quick. 

The ridge they’d set their tiny camp on came into view. 

Arthur could hardly bear to look. 

_“Albert!”_ he hollered. Arthur pulled Odessa into a skidded stop on his approach, dismounting with a haphazardness that pulled and pinched at still-healing wounds, _“Albert!”_

Albert came scrambling over, a portrait of panic.

“Oh, Arthur, you scared the daylights out of me— I thought you'd be here already and— “

Relief flooded through him for a moment and nothing more. The man was unharmed and alone, a far cry from the graphic visions that had plagued him not moments ago. Albert was okay. 

_And he’d just left a stupidly obvious trail leading straight to him._

“Al—“ he grabbed the man’s shoulder tight, eyes wild, “You gotta go—“

“Arthur, I’m glad you’re all right— I was speaking to someone at the saloon this morning and—“

Albert hadn’t even set up the camera yet. Before Arthur laid a hand upon him, the man looked disheveled and cagey. Upset. Nervous, beyond what Arthur had grown to expect.

“Ain’t no time, Mr. Mason. We gotta—“

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t pull from his frantic thoughts exactly what it was they had to do. Tumbleweed, maybe, a mad dash deeper into the belly of the west.

But Tumbleweed wasn’t far enough. Mexico wasn’t far enough. Goddamned Tahiti wasn’t far enough. Try as he might, he couldn’t grab hold of any thought long enough to act upon it. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t have to. A sickening crack echoed through Cholla Springs.

Albert cried in anguish; his hand flew up, almost instinctively, gripping tight at the maw of a gaping wound, before he crumpled.

For a moment, all Arthur could do was stare at Albert, collapsed into the dirt, unmoving, blood seeping, pouring, dripping, spreading—

Arthur barely pulled his schofield and fired off a volley of shots before a second bullet ripped through his stomach, just beneath his ribs. He doubled over with an agonized cry, digging his fingers into his wound and cringing at the feeling of his own blood pooling between his fingers, soaking into the sand and mingling with Albert’s. 

A peal of laughter filled the air.

_“Good to see you again, Morgan!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, you beautiful, sweet saltwater taffies! ♡♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> First of all: I'm sorry.
> 
> Second: lol no I'm not, welcome to the climax. It's only worse from here! Its okay, just hold my hand and we'll get through this together. 
> 
> My warm little ray of sunshine, the sky may be full of clouds right now but even the worst storms pass eventually. This one, too. I adore each and every one of you, and will see you on Thursday! ♡♡♡
> 
> ... please don't kill me before then.
> 
> ♡


	32. III. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of suicide, allusion to suicide, homophobic language

Arthur’s blood ran cold; at least, that which was left in his veins did— what had dripped through his fingers was disgustingly hot.

“ _Shit_ —” his hand fluttered uselessly over Albert’s chilled, pallid skin.

He swallowed thick, peeling back Albert’s hand from his chest; a gnarled wound punched through muscle and bone, and not much else, if Arthur had to guess.

 _Fuck,_ there was a lot of blood and he could hear the rattle set into Albert’s weakening gasps. 

He hazarded a glance back up; Micah was nowhere to be seen, having dipped with the landscape. He didn’t have long though; any second, Baylock would come roaring up their little ridge. Arthur grit his teeth hard. He should’ve known Dutch would bring Micah. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Arthur pulled off his bandana, stuffing it against Albert’s wound, where it saturated far too quickly. Albert let out the smallest of whimpers, but otherwise didn’t react until Arthur leapt to grab Beatrice; the loss of Arthur’s hand pulled out a loud, mournful cry.

“‘S okay, Al, gonna get you out of here,” Arthur managed a shaky smile, “Gotta get you up, all right? Work with me here.”

In one painful, awful motion, one that damn near sent the both of them crashing right back down, Arthur hauled Albert to his feet and pushed him onto Beatrice’s back. The mare high-stepped, and took off without a second thought the moment Arthur gave her the word. 

His vision wavered, but Arthur was awash with relief nevertheless; if nothing else, Beatrice could get Albert back to Armadillo. Albert would be okay. He'd have to be. Arthur grit his teeth tight and hauled himself onto Odessa’s back without another word, shooting off into the desert. _Albert would be fine,_ Arthur weakly reassured himself, squeezing his eyes shut at the image of Albert sprawled across his horse's back, blood draining into the dusty terrain, lying there still as—

_as—_

still. 

_He'd be fine._

Arthur wove through the desert. If he could just outpace Micah, if he could just lose them for a second, he could make it back to the cabin—could grab his things, could patch himself up, and slip farther west before anyone realized. Odessa was a far cry faster, but Baylock was much more agile than the warmblood could ever hope to be and would have no trouble picking his way over the harsh landscape the second Micah caught sight of them. 

_“Aw, come on, sweetheart! Ain’t like you to run from a fight!”_

Micah’s taunts burrowed into his ears like beetles, echoing from the desert at his back. Micah, on his own, he could handle, and any other day would have done so happily. But the rest? The unseen scores of Van der Lindes hiding within the shadows, ready to swarm? Arthur was no coward, but neither was he stupid. There was no way he could stand his ground here; not like this. 

Arthur dropped Odessa’s reins for just a moment, hoping to put some small amount of pressure on the oozing wound under his ribs. His shirt was thoroughly soaked through, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the road ahead. The winding trails and rolling hills carved along the route to the lake were Arthur’s best chance at shaking that bastard. He had to go back to the cabin, had to grab a first aid kit, had to patch himself back up and plug the hole in his gut. His shirt clung to his skin tightly. He could smell the coppery perfume of his own blood— could feel his fingers turning numb, could see the black dots that creeped in at the edge of his vision. He blinked them away; he could die later, for now he had to keep going.

In one moment, he was guiding Odessa down the sheer, rocky terrain that caressed the lakeside.. 

In the next, he was crashing hard into that same terrain, mere yards from Hamish’s cabin. His bad shoulder hit first; Arthur’s vision went white. His ears rang. For once, he couldn’t feel the searing heat of the New Austin sun. 

He vomited into the sand, overcome by blind terror and pain. A moment, he decided, was all he needed. Just a minute. Arthur curled into himself, chest heaving and limbs going numb, as the darkness slowly dragged him under. 

But the moment didn’t come; the darkness was chased away, broken by Odessa’s strangled cry. Arthur’s eyes flew open; she, too, was down. She, too, wasn’t getting back up. He dragged himself to her side, limbs heavy and useless. 

“No, no, no, no, c’mon girl, get up, _c’mon darling_ …” he ran his hand over her hide, finding a deep wound dug into her neck, pouring a heavy stream of blood into the sand, “I got you, Darlin’, I got you…”

At his pleading, his prodding, she slowly kicked her feet— but she did not get up. Odessa lifted her head as best she could manage, nostrils flared and eyes wild, but could manage nothing more. Her breath came sharp and heavy; final. 

Arthur sat; numb, unbelieving. He needed to help Odessa, needed to get up, to get it— 

It. _It_. His brain felt ethereal; more smoke than substance as it grappled with that word before finally grabbing hold of something more concrete: the supplies. His supplies, the reserve supplies he kept in case of emergency, which he couldn’t quite decide if this was. Albert had given him a hefty stock of medical supplies to replace what Arthur had abandoned when he first fled the gang, and all of it sat just mere yards away, a lifeline if he could only get on his feet. 

If he could just get up, _if he could stop being so fucking useless_ , he could patch Odessa up— and well, he wasn’t a doctor, nor a seamstress, but the state of his shirt and the flesh beneath more than likely lent itself to stitches, too. He wasn’t sure he could this this particular wound, though. His shirt was thoroughly saturated and dripping steadily— but damn it, he wasn’t dead yet. Getting there quicker by the moment, but not _yet_ , and Odessa could survive, if nothing else. If he could just get that kit, if he could just stop her bleeding, then maybe— maybe at least _one_ of them would make it out of this. 

A low whistle from behind assured him that wouldn’t be the case.

“Nice place you got here, cowpoke,” Micah sneered.

Arthur gripped his wound tight, fighting like hell to get to his feet. Tears burned in his eyes. He snarled at Micah as he approached, but could muster the strength for nothing else. The most he could manage was to keep his feet under him through sheer will alone, but even that was fragile at best. 

“H-how did you—“ Arthur sputtered, forcing his face into the most menacing glower he could muster, fingers still dug into his side. 

“How did I _what?_ _Find you?_ Jesus fucking christ, it weren’t _hard._ Just had to pay a visit to a few _friends_ of yours, see if you ain’t _dropped by to say hello_.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped and icy panic surged through him as those words sank into his skin.

“No—” he whispered, voice hardly there and barely heard. 

“How very _sweet_ of you to abandon them,” Micah continued, a strange, Cheshire grin smeared across his face, only growing with each word, “Had to make sure you ain’t run off and hid with any more of ‘em! Like that sweet little widow up at Willard’s Rest. And don’t you worry one bit, _sugar_ , I stopped by and took care of that crippled bastard too! What was his name— _Hamish_? He sure did put up one hell of a fight! Gave me this for my troubles.”

Micah stroked his fingers along a yellowing bruise bloomed along his jaw.

Arthur felt something in him shatter. 

Hamish couldn’t—

And Charlotte—

And—

 _“You’re full of shit!“_ Arthur reeled back, catching Micah in the nose. Micah let out a cackling laugh, wiping the blood from his face; _Arthur’s_ blood. Micah retaliated quicker than Arthur could react, fist connecting with Arthur’s cheek. Arthur could do nothing to soften the blow, his bones all too willing to collapse into a heap.

“You’re lying!” Arthur roared, eyes squeezed shut against the flare of pain as he dropped to the dirt. If he was lucky, it would bruise. 

“Not this time, _cowpoke._ ” Micah pulled a wad of papers from his pocket; pages from Arthur’s journal, thoroughly stained red. Upon each, a different face, a different memory, crumpled and wadded, “And did you _really_ think I wouldn’t recognize the fucking _photographer_ _?_ _Give me a break!_ ” 

Arthur watched in horror as those faces drifted down, slowly, to the dirt, eyes fixed on his own handiwork. 

He stared. 

His thoughts moved sluggishly; painfully so. 

Then suddenly, Arthur surged with adrenaline, tackling Micah into the dirt. He held the upper hand for but a moment; Micah reversed their roles right away, pinning Arthur’s head to the ground with a single hand.

“I told you to run, Morgan,” he hissed, breath sour on Arthur’s cheek, “You _really_ ought to have listened.”

Micah looked… wrong. Worse. Unkempt and untethered, as though what little restraint the man had was dissolved. 

“You son of a—“ Arthur spat blood into the sand. His voice came weak and breathy, but Lord, he _tried,_ “Ain’t done nothin _but_ run.” 

_“Not far enough.”_

Micah drove his fist into Arthur’s jaw. 

“And now—“ Micah straddled his prone form, eclipsing the sun overhead, “‘Cause of _you,_ I got dragged into this _hellhole_ . You have any idea what you’ve _cost_ me?”

“Cost you?” Arthur staggered to his feet, weak, trembling, “Cost _you_?”

He threw another punch of his own, immediately mourning the loss of pressure on his gaping wound. The blow was weak and uncoordinated; Micah barely flinched. That grin never wavered. 

A hand wrapped around Arthur’s throat..

“They was—“

A punch, harder, to the nose. Arthur’s vision went white.

“— _supposed_ —“

Another. 

“— to _keep_ you!”

His ears rang. 

Micah stood, kicking Arthur hard in the ribs. Arthur whimpered, involuntarily, and hated himself for it. He tried, and failed to push himself upright. His heart stuttered. His chest felt heavy and useless. 

But Micah barely took notice. He paced, manic, a vicious air rolling off of him; dangerous, unpredictable. 

“Oh, but can’t no one just do as they’re _told_ , now can they? Goddamned useless fucking _O’Driscolls_ … Now, _you_ got Dutch all fucking _soft_ and _useless_ , this entire thing has gone to _shit!_ You know he won’t even send for the fucking money? I finally get a chance to put this all to rest without involving those fucking Pinkerton’s, make it easier on everyone, but no— _we gotta go save the fag!_ All because _you_ ain’t got the decency to die like you _ought_ to. Oh, but don’t you worry sweetheart! _We’ll get there._ ”

“No…” Arthur sputtered through a mouthful of blood, those awful words seeping into this addled mind, “You… you… ”

“Aw, well since you asked so nicely, I’ll make it quick!”

Summoning the last of his strength, Arthur threw himself at Micah, desperate. His advance was stifled by a single boot against his chest. His shoulder screamed. His vision waned.

“Well, come on then, sweetheart!” he shoved the barrel of his revolver into Arthur’s mouth, the cold steel biting his tongue, _“Let’s make this look convincing.”_

In the distance, birds scattered, startled by the crack of a gunshot that echoed across lake Don Julio. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	33. III. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts, suicidal actions, depiction of suicide, depictions of domestic abuse
> 
> I mean it. Steer clear of this one if any of that bothers you. I don't want you all getting hurt.

Arthur remembers the night his mom died. 

There is more of that night in his memory than of any night before; more of his mother there than anywhere else. 

The air was bitter and thin; an unusually cold night that saw Arthur, no more than five at the time, curled up in front of a measly fire, a threadbare blanket tugged around his shoulders. The wind beyond the thin wooden walls howled and sobbed with thunder. He remembers this in particular, remembers watching the rain beat upon the glass, worried that with one particularly determined gust, the storm might see fit to swallow their small home with all of them inside of it. 

Frightening as the storm was, though, he preferred it to the wretched screams and sobs coming from the bedroom as his father displayed in graphic detail just how _disappointed_ he was in Arthur’s mother. 

Glass shattered. Furniture fractured. He heard his mother’s anguished wails and his father’s violent ranting.

His father left, face twisted with anger. Blessedly, he barely offered Arthur a passing glance, slamming the door behind him and rattling the frame. His holster was empty; it rarely was. Arthur didn’t remember this, though— he only remembered seeing that gun later that same night, rusted and filthy, being pulled from her hand and tucked back in place as though it had never left. 

He remembered the stillness after his father had gone. He remembered the hitch in his mother’s sobs.

A peal of thunder echoed from that small bedroom, the door hung limp on its hinges. For a moment, he was afraid the storm had gotten through in there instead. 

He was wrong though. As his father helpfully reminded him so often, Arthur was wrong. 

As he, all of twenty-one years old, sat between those two tiny crosses, he wondered if this is what his mother had felt. The desperation. The rage. The sorrow. The emptiness. The awkward angle of the revolver in her hand. The cold bite of iron heavy on her tongue. 

He wondered how many times she had tasted that iron. How many times _he_ would, before he could _finally_ gather the nerve to make his mother proud. 

Wondered if this might _finally_ be the last time.

It never was though.

Not that time, or the time after, or the dozens after that. 

The shot that had sounded through New Austin left his ears ringing. 

The gun fell from his mouth, pulled by Micah’s limp body, a single, perfect hole punched through the back of his head. 

Blinking past the dots that crept into the edges of his vision, trying to breathe over the heaving of his chest and the weight of grief and regret, Arthur’s eyes set upon Micah’s body. 

And then up. 

To Dutch. 

Strangely, he wasn’t particularly scared. Relief first, then resignation, until Dutch’s menacing glower fell to him. 

His face was mangled with such potent, vile rage, such hatred, such anger, that Arthur realized he had never truly felt _any_ of those emotions before. Not really. Arthur scrambled backwards as much as he could, his heart pounding in a symphony of fear, but his stomach was still slowly oozing dark red blood and his shoulder had no doubt busted open yet again. 

Dutch took a single step forwards, Schofield in hand, as the darkness swallowed Arthur once again, and for the first time in a long, long while, Arthur Morgan didn’t want to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOO! 
> 
> Betcha didn't expect to see me on a SATURDAY ♡
> 
> Here's the deal my lovelies: this chapter was REAL short, and I DID leave you on a pretty nasty cliffhanger on Thursday, so instead of making you wait FOUR DAYS for a 500 word chapter, I posted a day early! Because I love you! 
> 
> The next one is short too, so I'll post that tomorrow as usual ♡♡♡ See you Sunday, darlings! ♡


	34. III. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy in case you missed it, I posted a chapter yesterday (Saturday) too! ♡♡♡

Within the hour, Albert Mason was back, sticky with blood and coursing, with fear, draped heavily over the back of his horse. 

At the gapes and the murmurs that pulsed through through the streets, Dutch pulled himself from his thoughts just in time to witness Albert slide off the back of his loyal steed. 

The man clambered to his feet. The startled folks of Armadillo generously gave him a wide berth, unwilling to involve themselves in such gruesome business, but Albert didn’t mind. He stumbled to Dutch in blind panic, eyes blown wide and skin pale as paper. Dutch instinctively took a step back.

“Jesus. What happened to  _ you? _ ”

“You—“ he panted, breathless for blood loss or exertion, but Dutch couldn’t say which. The man’s voice wavered, “It was Arthur, right? Y-you were talking about Arthur? Arthur Morgan?”

Dutch’s eyes widened.

“You—“

Albert swallowed back the sick that rose in his throat, hand pressed tight against his wound, against Arthur’s bandana, now a wet, congealed mess, “He’s— he’s going to be  _ killed _ , you have to—“

The sheer grief and despair in the man’s voice was enough to pull Bill’s attention as well.

“ _ What? _ ”

Albert described in great detail, or as great as the man could manage given his rapidly weakening state, the horrifying events of the morning; Arthur’s frantic arrival, his desperate pleas, the fear in his eyes as Albert got shot. 

The wound in Arthur’s gut that looked nearly fatal.

Wavering, stumbling, fading, he told Dutch where to go, about the cabin on the lake. About the rat-faced, greasy man with stringy blonde hair who had watched him so closely as he left the saloon that morning. The predatory way he had looked at Albert in that passing moment made him feel positively nauseated.

The words spilled out of him quickly, fragmented, barely intelligible, but enough to turn Dutch’s stomach to lead. His body thrummed and howled with confusion and dread, and despite his herculean effort, every bit of that leaked into his expression. 

In the next moment, Albert collapsed against Dutch, who shoved the barely-conscious man off onto Bill.

“Get him taken care of,” Dutch commanded, swinging atop The Count, drowning beneath both overwhelming guilt and the tiniest splinters of hope. 

He took off towards the lake Albert had described, though soon found his path defined by drips of bright red blood soaked into the sand. 

He could hear Micah’s voice carry across the cliffside, and the vitriol he felt only grew more potent as he slowly made out each and every awful word. That hatred brought with it the most potent nausea Dutch had known in years. 

He drew up to the small cabin in a flurry of hooves and steel, to see Odessa collapsed in the sand, a bullet in her neck, unmoving, and Micah sat atop Arthur.

Micah, prying open Arthur’s jaw with his grubby fingers.

Micah shoving the barrel of his gun into Arthur’s mouth.

Micah fingering at the trigger.

_ Micah— _

Dutch’s ears buzzed. The world around him bathed in white as a downpour of nasty memories consumed him for a moment.

Before he had even realized, Micah was dead and Dutch was returning his Schofield to its holster on his hip. 

There are few that can make a man regret his emotions, especially such vile emotions as seething rage and injustice— fewer still that could persuade a man such as Dutch, hardheaded and stubborn as he was, to put his anger and sheathe his disgust as he glared at Micah’s body, blood seeping into the sand. 

This, however, was once such a thing. 

Arthur was trembling, as much as he tried to still himself, half-collapsed into the dirt where he had scrambled backwards as quickly as three limbs could carry him. He could blame the shaking and the pallor in his cheeks on the blood loss, more of it on him than in him at this point. 

His eyes were wide as saucers, his jaw tightly wound. A crack, a chip out of Arthur's usually confident facade and all Dutch could see was resignation.  His heart thundered in his ears, drowning out his own thoughts, as he drank in every detail of his boy.

His eyes traced from the hole in Arthur’s side, falling heavy on Arthur’s shoulder.

Dutch’s stare stuck fast.

His fucking arm was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning my darlings! ♡♡♡
> 
> Another short chapter, but bear with me, the next one is longer ♡
> 
> Thus ends Act 3. Welcome to our fourth and final act (although there is also an epilogue!). 
> 
> Albert lived long enough to make it to Armadillo! And Arthur has no arm! So many fun things happening all at once ♡
> 
> Sometimes it can be hard for us to see how much we're needed. But dear, I notice you. And I need you! You make my days so much brighter just by being here and coming on this journey with me. Perhaps the love of one fool on the internet isn't quite enough, but if nothing else it is genuine. Keep on keeping on, you marvellous, sweet little cuttlefish! ♡♡♡♡
> 
> Love you lots my dears, see you on Tuesday! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡


	35. III. XIV

The world was still for just the briefest moment. Everything was quiet. All he could hear was the gentle swell of the lake and the sweet calls of the crickets in the grass around his head. The stars above, dotted and clearer than ever, stared right back into him. 

And Dutch was there.

He didn’t know _why_ Dutch was there, or why the look on his face made his chest ache so badly, but he was there. 

Dutch was saying something— and wasn’t he always— fidgeting and desperate, half-folded over his body, touching him, pushing him. Rambling still.

Dutch looked utterly _terrified,_ his pupils mere pinpricks, eyes brimming with tears. His hair was a mess, a tangled nest of curls weighed down by sweat. Arthur was struck with the distinct feeling that he should be afraid, probably, but couldn’t quite bring himself to feel much of anything at all. The deep lines dug into Dutch’s face seemed familiar, but Arthur couldn’t place why. 

But, _God,_ did Dutch wear panic well. 

If it was supposed to hurt— and Arthur figured it was, by the apologetic static that fed from Dutch’s mouth— he figured that it was probably for the best that his body had gone numb. He couldn’t even feel his hands—

hand.

Couldn’t feel his _hand._ He had yet to adjust to the empty space where his arm used to be, or the shift in his own weight, or hell, he’d grown so accustomed to the sling, he found himself missing that, too. Two damn weeks and he still hadn’t gotten used to it.

Vaguely, he figured he probably wouldn’t ever get the chance. 

“Dutch….” he wheezed, not entirely sure why his voice sounded so distant and foggy.

Dutch’s breath hitched. The panic seemed to swallow him whole, but the man’s attention was pulled almost comically fast by the mention of his name— certainly nobody had used it with such an overwhelming affectionate tone in a very, very long time. 

Arthur would have laughed if he hadn’t been pulled back down into the depths. 

And then he woke up.

Which was a surprise to say the least, though he couldn’t place his finger on why. For a moment, the world was a pleasant blur.

And then he took a breath.

His ribs screamed.

His shoulder burned, just as it had those first few nights without his arm, but _worse. Everywhere._

He felt swollen, and dry, and raw, and stiff, and _wrong_.

Arthur let out a harsh, mangled croak, curling into himself. Everything hurt.

Tears beaded in his eyes.

Something was very, _very_ wrong.

Slowly, agonizingly, memories trickled back, slotting together in the worst way, huge gaps between them. He couldn’t recall why he was hurting quite so bad, nor why his head felt so full of cotton and wasps, or why his entire body felt like it was made of ash. 

But he remembered Dutch. 

_Fuck._

Ignoring his wounds, pleading with his battered body, he grit his teeth and bit back a scream as he pushed himself upright. He had to go. He couldn’t stay here; he had to run, had to grab Odessa, had to escape and—

Arthur vomited bile. His vision went white.

He kept going.

He had only just managed to force himself to his feet, vision blurry, leaning hard against the wall. Sweat rolled off of him. He shivered uncontrollably. He dug his fingers hard into the most annoying bite of pain, feeling his flesh give way under his fingers. 

_Gun_ , his brain whispered, the thought needling at him as he spied the indistinct blotch sat atop the nightstand, coiled in his belt, _You’ll need it._

So he grabbed it. Held it tight. One hand, just the one, to steady himself and keep a hold on his weapon, but he managed. Only just, but he did. Arthur took another step. He’d gotten out of worse. He’d survived worse. If he could only reach Odessa, she could take him home— and he had a gun. He didn’t have a gun last time. He couldn’t place a finger on what ‘last time’ meant, but he knew it was important.

Had to get to Odessa, had to get her, _had to go_ — 

Dutch slowly pushed the door open, cringing as it groaned. There, illuminated by flickering lantern light, was Arthur, standing. Haunted. Lost. Trembling. His face was pale and twisted with pain, mouth curved with agony. The man looked ragged, dark circles nested atop too-stark cheekbones, his shirt half-off, stained and hanging from his bruised frame. His breath was heavy and biting, desperately drawn between clenched teeth because if he opened his mouth he would surely scream. 

Or vomit. 

Or both. 

Arthur’s hand shook violently, pressed hard against the wall, the dark slick of blood stark against his skin and the sight of it all stirred something in Dutch’s stomach. 

“Arthur?”

And god fucking damn it, Arthur flinched when Dutch spoke. He turned his face away. Away from Dutch— the man who raised him, who loved him, his best friend and closest partner for all these years. His features twisted with anger. Arthur’s gun, held in a loose, bare grip, clattered to the floor when he saw Dutch’s face. Arthur’s eyes were on him, wide and ripe with guilt and fear, like a child caught with their fingers in the candy jar. 

Arthur leaned hard against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. Even Dutch’s soft whisper was too fucking loud.

“... jus’ do it,” Arthur groaned praying to whatever might be out there that he sounded even half normal.

He didn’t feel half normal. He felt... wrong. Wrong in all the wrong ways. The kind of wrong that he just couldn’t quite place, until he groggily remembered that, fuck, he’s actually bleeding a lot. Arthur clamped a hand to his side, fruitlessly, hoping Dutch might make his death quick.

Dutch stared him down, brows furrowed at Arthur’s slow, deliberate words and the way he seemed to struggle in just standing there. Arthur could feel Dutch’s eyes drilling into him, burning with anger and confusion. He pushed himself further into the wall unwilling to turn his attention away from Dutch, ignoring the pull of pain and the way his shirt was thoroughly soaked against his skin. He dug his fingernails into his skin, ignoring the thick, sopping wet fabric around his midsection. 

He must’ve pulled a face, or made a noise, or perhaps it was simply the way he stared, wide-eyed and terrified like a dying deer, whatever it was, he could tell by Dutch’s face that the man had caught sight of something he didn’t quite like. Dutch had closed the gap between them before Arthur had realized. Arthur flinched. Dutch peeled Arthur’s hand away from his wound— a silent command to allow himself to bleed out onto Hamish’s floor, no doubt— and Arthur couldn’t look at him anymore. 

Dutch’s wide-eyed stare fell to the small pool that gathered around Arthur’s foot, soaking into the wood floor of Hamish’s cabin. Arthur, too, stared, slightly nauseous, at the growing puddle. There wasn’t any contrast to see on Arthur’s shirt, dark fabric stained only darker with blood, but he definitely saw the way it shimmered in the light that snuck in through the drawn curtains.

In Arthur’s wake, a flawless recounting of Arthur’s path from the bed, short as it was, pooling now around his feet and growing ever larger by the second. His legs gave out underneath him, but he didn’t recall hitting the floor. 

Dutch looked... a certain kind of way. Arthur wasn’t sure, perhaps it was the dots playing at the edge of his vision, but Dutch looked a thousand different ways. Angry, confused, exhausted, scared... 

Sad, strangely. 

“‘M sorry,” Arthur groaned, trying to sit up, flinching hard at the feeling of Dutch’s hands on his skin, trying, and failing, to escape, though he couldn’t place why, or what he was escaping from, “M sorry— I— I’ll go, ‘m sorry…”

Hands seemed to reach up from between the floorboards, gripping him tight and pulling him back deeper, yet deeper, and deeper still.

Arthur hoped he wouldn’t resurface again. 

“Shit!” Dutch breathed, barely audible as Arthur again fell into that familiar void. A frown spilled over his features as he once again hoisted Arthur’s limp form onto the bed, a feat still far too easy for his liking. A moment of weakness existed, delicately, between the two of them, unlike any Dutch had seen in a very long time. 

And he hated it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, dears! ♡
> 
> Welcome to the first chapter of the fourth and final act. 
> 
> My darlings, healing is a process. Healing hurts. Sometimes we make mistakes, or take steps back, or get out of bed before we're supposed to and rip open our stitches, *Arthur*. What matters is that we accept where we are and let ourselves heal. Or, yknow, that we bleed out on the floor until our outlaw-dad has to forcibly put us back in bed. 
> 
> Ah, my flawless tea roses, I adore each and every one of you. I hope you all have a beautiful morning filled with friendly bumblebees. I'll see you on Thursday! ♡♡♡


	36. Chapter IV: New Austin

While Arthur was unconscious, Dutch was alone with his thoughts, with his _fears,_ with the feeling of Arthur’s blood slick up to his elbows, and the too-vivid memory of the life dimming in his boy’s eyes. 

He had managed to drag Arthur into the small cabin himself, a task that was disgustingly easy. He’d lost weight. In perhaps the only stroke of luck he’d found in his entire goddamned life, the small bedroom in the back was already stocked well with medical supplies. Morphine, bandages, antiseptic… But he was no Hosea. 

He’d dug the bullet from Arthur’s flesh; the man had stayed unconscious the entire time, which was at first a relief but as time wore on and his searching became more desperate, the tip of his knife rooting deeper into Arthur’s chest, that silence grew unsettling and painfully grim. What he wouldn’t give for a single strangled cry, a single pained groan, hell, even a twitch across his features— anything to assure Dutch that his boy was still fighting. 

He was no Hosea. Dutch had patched quite a few nasty wounds in his time, but it had certainly been a while. The stitches he tied through Arthur’s skin were uneven and haphazard at best. A shoddy job. He knit Arthur’s wound together and rinsed the whole mess with whiskey; Arthur didn’t so much as toss his head in response.

Try as he might he couldn’t prevent the fever that had nearly taken his boy from him a second time.

By the second night, Arthur’s skin burned fiercely, rolling with thick beads of sweat. Even under the hypnotic pull of morphine, Arthur only barely quieted. At best, he mumbled incoherent words meant for people who were long since gone. Dutch listened to every breathy cry, every murmured apology, every unfulfilled promise.

By the third night, Dutch had only just gotten Arthur settled enough to see to the mess that lay just beyond the walls of the cabin. A grim task, but he needed some sort of distraction. The effort of watching, of listening to those pained breaths did little to comfort him, the uncertainty eating away at him. He didn’t dare journey far. He buried those who needed to be buried, and dragged the rest out into the desert to rot.

He even took the time to untack The Count and to begrudgingly hitch Baylock, who had so stubbornly stuck around. Quick cash if they needed it, Dutch decided, and best not to waste a bullet. When finally his work was done and all reminders of their _reunion_ had been dealt with, Dutch returned to a quiet cabin, determined to get at least an hour of uninterrupted sleep before the morphine’s hold on Arthur waned. 

He had only kicked his boots off when he heard Arthur’s hitched cry of agony. 

Another stifled sob brought Dutch to his feet. 

If nothing else, Arthur has always been a fighter. For the first time, when he laid eyes upon his boy dripping anew with what little blood he had left, standing there lost with a gun clutched loosely in his hand, Dutch felt nothing but bitter hatred for that particular trait. 

He wasn’t Hosea. He couldn’t calm the boy, try as he might to soothe his suffering. Apologies spilled out of Arthur’s mouth uninhibited. In that moment, seeing his son in such pitiful shape, seeing him so terrified— terrified of _him_ — shattered the last of his hope that, maybe, this entire ordeal might see a quiet conclusion. 

Within another moment, he’d be clutching tight to Arthur’s blood-soaked and unconscious form. 

Part of him knew he was in over his head, and wanted nothing more than to hand the reins to someone else— anyone else. A different part saw the look on Arthur’s face, still burdened and twisted in unconsciousness, and burned fiercely with a need to protect that look from prying eyes.

By the time Dutch had made his decision, having thoroughly re-bandaged Arthur’s wound, Arthur’s eyes had heavily fluttered open, pried hard against the weight of injury and influence. 

“You’re going to be fine, son,” Dutch fetched his boots from the living room, “We’re gonna get you help.”

If Arthur could hear him, he showed no sign of it, simply staring, chest heaving. 

Dutch pulled Arthur up with an arm under his arm. 

Singular. 

He swallowed back against the torrent of nausea and guilt that flooded through him. His own son, cut apart in some nowhere town, alone, hurting— the thought played over in his head without cessation. How badly must his arm have ached for Arthur to do something so drastic? Did he even have a choice? 

But one thing he _did_ know was that _someone_ had removed that arm. Someone with at least some knowledge of medicine; though Arthur’s empty shoulder was bruised and split, it had clearly once been cut through cleanly and stitched back together— the kind of even, clean stitches Dutch would expect from a professional. If whatever passed for a doctor in a godforsaken dustheap like Armadillo could remove an arm, they could no doubt stitch a wound. 

He had to believe that.

Arthur was dead weight against him, exhausted and trembling. Dutch shifted, hoping to hold as much of the man’s megar heft as he could. 

“Gonna get you to town. Come on, cowboy, work with me...” Dutch pleaded through gritted teeth. 

Dutch had been trying to encourage him, trying to get the weakened man to comply. But that had been the wrong thing to say. At those words, Arthur stiffened, his breath sucked in an audible gasp. Suddenly, with a ferocity that was unmatched, the man had shoved him as hard as he could, pulling away from Dutch, eyes wide and once again flooded with that same overwhelming fear as he stumbled, collapsing to the floor and scrambling backwards until his back was flush with the wall. 

“Arthur— what are you—”

“ _You—_ ” he whispered, baring his teeth as though he was some sort of feral animal, “D-don’t you fuckin—”

Dutch took a step back, eyes locked on that horrible expression. Arthur’s chest thundered fast and uneven— too shallow, too quick, too much too fast. 

“Arthur, son, you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“Not—” Arthur pushed himself further, harder against the wall, raw determination coursing in those words. His voice dripped thick with a vile hatred so potent Dutch felt a cold bead of sweat drip down his cheek, “ _No_ — Ain’t goin’ nowhere—”

Dutch allowed thunder to roll into his voice, hoping it might pull the man from his blinding panic, “ _Arthur, calm down!_ ”

Sure enough, the man’s mouth slammed shut like a trap. Tears rolled across his cheeks, and his breath still came in wheezy shocks, the tirade suddenly extinguished; replaced by fear. Dutch could see pure terror within that gaze. He felt sick; what had happened to him? 

“Arthur,” he added more gently, crouching to be eye-level with the man, “You have to talk to me, I-I don’t know what’s wrong—I can't-”

“Not town,” Arthur growled, voice weak, though his bleary stare held fast and dangerous, “Not like _him._ ”

Try as he might, Dutch couldn't quite define ' _him_ '. His eyes again fell on Arthur's empty shoulder, mind awash in questions, but something else, something _worse,_ sat deep in the back of his mind. He pushed it back deeper still.

“Okay, okay…” Dutch swallowed thick, watching Arthur’s eyelids grow heavy. It had been years since he’d seen the man so thoroughly consumed by raw panic. In the past he had held some idea of what had caused those terrors. But now? He hadn't the faintest clue of what had caused such a violent reaction. Dutch felt as though he didn't even know this man; the man that had been by his side for more than twenty years was somehow a complete stranger. Dutch held up his hands in mock surrender, letting out a deep breath, “Okay.” 

He might not be Hosea, but this was one thing he could do that the other had never been able to succeed in. Hosea had never been able break one of these spells; he simply couldn’t stomach it, strange as it sounded. Seeing his boy in such a poor state with no obvious cure and no way of calming him was disheartening, to say the least, and often left Hosea in a fragile state of his own. But Dutch knew. He knew the feeling all too well and had easily taken up the mantle of healer when Arthur needed him.

Now, too, he slipped back into that role with ease. 

Not town, then. Dutch wasn’t sure why, or what the hell he was supposed to do now, but _not town_. 

He swallowed hard against the knot forming in his throat; what the hell had they done to him?

“Arthur,” he spoke low and clear, “Arthur, take a deep breath. I’m going to— Let’s get you back in bed, all right? We won’t go there. We won't go anywhere— we'll just stay here, alright? But let's— let's calm you down.”

He drew from the vial of morphine that had been left on the nightstand, filling the syringe to roughly the same fullness he’d seen Hosea use before, the same amount he’d been giving like clockwork, if not slightly more. 

“Arthur, I’m gonna give you something to help with the pain, okay?” 

He wasn’t actually asking; before Arthur could reply, Dutch set the needle deep into the meat of his arm, massaging it afterwards until Arthur slowly sagged back into the floor, nearly boneless. His heart still frenzied under his skin as Dutch again hoisted him, maneuvering him back to bed. He cringed at the heat burning within Arthur as he settled the still-shaking man.

“I’ll be back soon, all right?” he asked, knowing his words went unheard, as the morphine dragged Arthur back down into himself. 

He hated the thought of leaving him there, alone. His boy had been alone for far too long, but what other choice did he have? Something within town had spooked him, something dark and dangerous, its talons digging in tight, blanketing him in fear. But Armadillo was the best chance he had. And if Arthur would not go to town, then Dutch had to get the town to come to him. Dutch grabbed The Count, and tore into Armadillo just as the sky was dyed pink and blue, pushing the beast far beyond his usual gallop. 

He called for the doctor. 

The doctor called for the preacher. 

By the time the sun rose, the three of them returned in a mad flurry of hooves.

The doctor and preacher shared a look, warily eying the bloodstains soaked into the dry earth. Both said a prayer as they entered the homestead with newfound urgency. 

Dutch sat outside by the meager campfire, unable to so much as look at the cabin until the both of them left. 

He had never felt more alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, good morning, and good night to each and every one of you perfect little cinnamon buns. Look at you, with your tight swirl and your cream cheese drizzle. Fabulous ♡
> 
> This is a chapter I was debating on adding! But I think it turned out nice :) If you disagree, uh... sorry, I guess skip this one during the reread lol. 
> 
> A huge, huge, HUGE thank you to my darling, dearest Emmithar, who lent a hand in getting this chapter all put together! Without Em, this chapter would've been worse! ♡♡♡
> 
> My lovelies, my sweet little raspberries, I don't know where I'd be without you. I adore you all! And I'll see you on Sunday!


	37. IV. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts

Arthur had been to the circus once. Exactly once, completely by mistake as he fled the consequences of one action or another. He had slipped in through a flap in the tent somewhere near the back and miraculously went unnoticed.

It was there, in the dimness of the early evening, that he found himself mesmerized by the pacing of a cougar kept in a cage not too much lengthier than the animal itself. Its route was short and obsessive, back and forth and back again. Its face was twisted with a feeling Arthur couldn’t recognize but could certainly sympathize with. He knew, if offered the slightest chance, the beast would cut him to ribbons before bounding off into the night, never to be seen again. It looked like a cornered animal, and by all accounts it was, so used to being cornered that the fear had hardened into something worse. Something dangerous— akin to cunning or hatred— but calm. Impatient but waiting nonetheless.

There was also some kind of resignation. Closer, perhaps, to resolution. The monstrous cat didn’t gnaw at the bars, it didn’t spit as he approached, it simply paced. Waited. Watched. He later heard through rumor that an animal had escaped that circus and had managed to kill three men and a woman before being shot dead. He hoped it was that very same cougar.

In this moment, Dutch was the same. Pacing. Waiting. Looking for a moment— any moment— to do something. The question wasn’t _if_ , but _what_ and _when._

Arthur wasn’t keen on finding out.

Since Arthur last awoke from the cold grip of unconsciousness, neither of them had spoken a word. Arthur out of fear— there was nothing he could say, even if terror hadn’t filled his lungs and suffocated him. Even if the pain of his wounds and the incessant fever hadn’t consumed him making it impossible to string together a coherent thought, there was nothing he could say to make any of this go away.

And Dutch, well, Arthur had a horrified inkling that Dutch’s silence was something worse. He knew it was painfully intentional. A new form of torture playing to the very worst and nastiest of his fears. The man held all the cards here and all Arthur could do was stew in the silence, his mind running wild with thoughts of what might happen next.

Dutch attended him quietly, no remarks, no comments. He offered no greetings nor words of comfort or hate. His commands were offered wordlessly, his hands bending and pushing Arthur as need be in pursuit of care.

And Arthur let him, awash in the depths of a fear he had never known.Beyond that, beyond those brief, clinical touches, Dutch didn’t go near him. He drowned in the silence. Festered. Rotted from the inside out.

It was worse than silence, actually. In silence, when he was on his own, Arthur could think. He could speak aloud to the air, or to Odessa, and hear his own thoughts call back. He could focus— but this? The constant fear and rippling pain? Living awash in the worst of his anxieties and nightmares come to fruition? He found himself entombed in regret, wishing he had never given form to those fucking thoughts.

If there had been an opening for it, any second that he wasn’t held under Dutch’s watchful eye, if he could have found anything sharper than a bedpost or quicker than a ratty blanket, he would have killed himself by day two. By day four of scarcely interrupted consciousness, he could see no end, and saw fit to simply bide his time until death meandered by.

But even panic boils down sooner or later, his frustration and fear now a potent reduction, just beneath the surface. Wrath. Biding. Arthur could wait.

The moss like silence of those few days— six to be exact, as Arthur had suffered through every goddamned minute of it— had loosened and become less of an eyesore and more of a soft, familiar blanket.

That little comfort— that small predictability— was ripped away the moment his delirium had faded and the pallor left his cheeks. It was the first time Arthur had managed to stand without immediately collapsing, a feat he had conquered while Dutch was in the other room. He wasn’t so dumb that he couldn’t recognize his first chance to escape in nearly a week. Perhaps he might have made it, too, had the he not devolved into a series of hacking, painful coughs.

Arthur braced himself against the wall, dangerously close to coming face to face with Dutch.

It was, to say the least, startling. To be a little more accurate, Arthur was absolute scared shitless, violently flinching away when Dutch asked:

“Going somewhere?”

He’d been doing that a lot— flinching. Oh and how he hated it. Hated how vulnerable it left him feeling, how weak it made him look. Especially in front of _him_. Not to mention that it was an incredible disservice to his wounds, leaving him to grit his teeth against the bubbles of agony. But Arthur just couldn’t help it; his body dredging up memories of years long since passed, of people long gone, every goddamn time Dutch so much as looked in his direction.

But to break the silence was taboo at this point. Arthur’s heart raced, leaping into his throat where it was quickly swallowed back. He set his jaw tight. His eyes met with a particularly interesting nail in the floor.

He could feel Dutch’s eyes on him. Waiting. 

Arthur stilled his wheezing, forced to choose between staying upright and soothing the ache in his lungs. His wound pulled painfully as his breath heaved. Arthur’s mind threw itself into overdrive, rushing like a herd of spooked horses, trampling one another in their desperation to escape the impending storm.

Anger, then. If not fear, if not logic, then anger.

“What the hell do you want from me?” he growled, voice raw.

And damn it, Dutch seemed legitimately surprised by the question. He might’ve answered, too, if Arthur’s knees hadn’t given out just then. He was torn when Dutch caught him; he didn’t particularly want to crash into the floor again, but at the same time didn’t want the man’s help. Didn’t want his hands on him, didn’t want him to put him back into that same goddamned bed in the corner that Arthur had been stuck in for lord knows how long. Not like he had any choice. The man eased him down without another word, letting him sink into the mattress, a routine performed with ease suggesting this had not been the first time it had happened. 

But this time, the man didn’t just dump him and leave. This time, Dutch stayed. 

“You okay?” Dutch asked. He sat on the bed, barely noticing the way Arthur slunk into the farthest corner.

What a funny question that was.

“... _peachy,_ ” Arthur grumbled, hoping the raw fear didn’t soak into his voice, “ _What do you want?_ ”

“Well all right then. I think it’s time we had a bit of a talk,” Arthur could see the very edges of Dutch’s temper start to fray. He shrunk back even farther. Dutch’s face grew dark and stern in a way Arthur had seen only in the clouds just before a hailstorm. He particularly didn’t want to hear what the man had to say. 

Arthur chewed his lip. If Dutch saw the hesitation, if he caught the wave of sorrow and grief that threatened to spill out, he certainly didn’t say anything. 

Dutch laid a hand on Arthur’s thigh, and suddenly Arthur was consumed once more.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Arthur, please, I—“

“I said _don’t fucking touch me!_ ” Arthur roared, the volume of his voice shaking the windows.

Dutch was visibly taken aback by the outburst, retracting his hand and folding it onto his lap, startling back as though he’d been burned. 

“I’m… sorry.”

Arthur stilled, his eyes widening. For a moment, he was confused. Dutch did not apologize; had never apologized— certainly not to him, and perhaps not to anyone else either, and definitely not with such a genuine heft to his words. It only furthered his rage, if such a thing were possible.

“You’re sorry? You’re goddamned _sorry_?” he spat out, all of everything unleashing its torrent upon him. Like hail within a storm. “All the fucking shit I’ve gone through— you have any idea the kind of hell I’ve lived these past weeks? Shit, these past months? Way I see it, Dutch: you don’t _get_ to be sorry. I ain’t about to make this easy for you so that you can feel better about yourself, so you’d better just kill me now and save your apologies for some other gullible fool.”

“What?” there was incredulity to the man’s voice, and for a moment, Arthur almost believed he was shocked. Almost. Until he remembered that Dutch himself was a conman, a fraud to his core; the man knew how to play the fool, and played it well. Something inside of him hardened as the man carried on, that same shocked look gracing his features. “Kill you? Arthur, why would I— Don’t be ridiculous, I ain’t going to—“ 

“You _think_ I’m some kind of fool? I _know_ what you saw!” the last part almost whispered in something violent, stopped only as he pushed back another peal of sputtering coughs.

Dutch watched through wide eyes as Arthur’s chest heaved and his fingers dug into the empty shoulder where his arm used to be, face twisted in a breathless kind of pain. “Arthur— please, don’t get so worked up— you’re going to hurt yourself again. We had to find you, a-after you took off like that. I— your journal was all we had! Believe me, son, if there were any other way—”

“I ain’t your son.” The single word echoed violently within his head. After all that had been done, the man did not have any right to call him—to call him _that_. 

Arthur’s frame quivered. He hissed against the burning pain in his side. Dutch lifted a hand to help soothe what must surely be an awful ache, but retracted it just as quickly.

“Arthur—“

“I ain’t your _fucking_ son,” he grit out the words, damn near spitting them back in Dutch’s face. 

“I—I know. I know that. I’m sorry. Arthur I’m—“ Dutch couldn’t seem to make eye contact, and the sight of that man looking so downtrodden made Arthur’s wounds ache all the more. If Arthur didn’t know any better, if he hadn’t seen it for himself, he’d think Dutch was crying. He’d be damned if he fell for such a cheap trick. He wasn’t willing to be played a fool, not again. But Dutch...the man seemed so genuine it tore something within his heart. 

Arthur felt sick. 

“Dutch—“ his voice was impossibly soft, the anger from moments ago melted away, burned off by confusion, “Just… get out. Go. You ain’t gotta be here.”

“Arthur, please-:

“Leave me be. I can take care of myself. We’re done.” 

A pause. Arthur could still feel the man watching him, and he wondered, briefly, what sort of manipulation this might be. Dutch never acquiesced quite so easily, he _never_ went down without a fight, but all the man did was nod. 

“Get some rest, Arthur,” he said, not sparing so much as a parting glance, “Please.”

And once again, Arthur was left alone in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, good morning, and good night to all my spooky skeleton friends ♡
> 
> It's October! And you know what THAT means! Halloween-themed A/N's!
> 
> Today we're graced with the opening throes of Dutch vs. Arthur, the confrontation you all have been waiting for, probably! Things are sloooowly closing down here... the end is in sight! 
> 
> Be strong, dears. It's always darkest just before the sunrise! ♡
> 
> Love you all! See you on Tuesday, darlings! ♡♡♡


	38. IV. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal thoughts and ideations

He’d failed. 

He’d failed _miserably._

Here he’d had all this time while Arthur slowly, painstakingly recovered, drifting in and out of consciousness, lost in the boundless waves of morphine and fever, and he still fucking _failed._

Dutch had planned out every word in his head; he'd come up with a delicately worded apology, something to soothe the aches of injustice and explain away his misdeeds. He’d crafted a beautiful, moving monologue— every motion, every expression, every stifled breath and gentle touch— but when faced with Arthur's blinding, fathomless anger, barely a breath into his lengthy apology, every minute he spent planning suddenly felt utterly futile. 

The words he had so meticulously chosen were empty and _wrong_ in ways he could never hope to understand.

He’d realized days ago that Arthur’s potent terror was not the result of feverish delirium; the hold of morphine waned, the fever dimmed, but the fear remained. Quieted though it was, he could see it lingering in Arthur’s stare, in every flinch at every touch. That fear settled deep into Dutch’s lungs; where once it would have burned in him, angry and foul, now that fear left him cold and useless. Arthur was afraid of _him._

It wasn’t as though they hadn’t argued before, drunken or otherwise, though it was certainly the first in a long while that they’d come to blows. 

That _he’d_ come to blows, he bitterly reminded himself; it was the first time in a long while that he’d allowed himself to be goaded into petty physical violence. He should’ve known better. They don’t hit _him_. 

Not since the first time. 

Not since Arthur, all of fourteen, had stolen Dutch’s spare sidearm from his saddlebag. 

He and Hosea had been planning their next move, the pair of them sat in Dutch’s tent, hunched over a map when the shot rang out. They ducked on instinct, neither man armed at the time. 

Dutch noticed it first, the hole punched through the canvas mere inches from Hosea’s head. The men shared a look, rage roiling just under their skin.

 _“What the fuck?”_ Hosea had roared, but Dutch was the first one to find the culprit. Arthur sat, wide eyed, smoking gun dropped to the dirt by his feet.

And Dutch saw red.

It was a rare moment: Hosea and Dutch, both awash in simultaneous anger, feeding off one another, shouting at Arthur who saw fit to shout right back as though he hadn’t nearly killed Hosea. Arthur protested his innocence first, swearing it wasn’t him. By the time he began rambling about how nobody was even hurt so they shouldn’t be mad, Dutch had gathered him up by the collar of his shirt. 

He reared back and struck the boy across the face, dropping him to the dirt. 

The shouting didn’t stop until Hosea took notice of Arthur’s shallow, rapid breath, and the way he had grown eerily quiet and still, not even bothering to push back up to his feet. Arthur’s cheeks rolled with tears, but otherwise the boy seemed entirely lost.

Hosea had calmed Dutch then, or tried to, but Dutch dumbly continued his tirade until Hosea knelt by Arthur’s side, quietly asking the boy if he was okay. 

Arthur was _not_ okay. 

He trembled, uncontrollably, seemingly adrift in his own thoughts, trapped in a perfect recreation of days long since dead. 

It took Hosea snapping at Dutch, his anger redirected entirely, for Dutch to purse his lips and storm off back to his slightly draftier tent. He was left to allow his anger to cool off while Hosea made attempts at tending to Arthur. 

They didn’t speak any more that night.

By morning, Arthur was gone.

It was five days before they discovered him drunk in the woods, scabbed and scraped and scared. In worse shape, perhaps, than he’d been when Dutch had first dragged the boy back to camp as though he were a mange-riddled stray and not a child. 

It was as if they lost every inch of progress they'd painstakingly carved out over those past months

They resolved, in those days desperately searching for Arthur, to never again lay hands upon the boy. The violent nightmares he suffered in the weeks after his return only served to strengthen their determination. 

Later, Dutch would realize that this was only the first of many similar attacks. Arthur would suffer similar fits of panic well into adulthood. Though they were different from his own, he quickly grew to recognize the signs and pull Arthur back from the brink. Eventually, he'd come to understand the boy's fear— what set him off, how to draw him back into himself— but he hadn’t understood it that first time though. Not when it mattered. He hadn't even tried. 

He drew in a deep chestful of the dry New Austin air. He was going to fix this. He was going to understand. 

  
  
  


Dutch returned that evening and dragged a chair into the bedroom behind him. Arthur couldn’t keep the surprise off of his face. He’d come back. Dutch _never_ comes back.

When Dutch gets angry, when he storms off and throws his hands up in frustration, he _never_ comes back. Regardless of who was in the wrong, the duty of reconciliation always fell to whoever had stoked his ire. Dutch _never_ came back.

And yet here he was. 

He laid a hand upon Arthur's forehead, testing for fever with that same bitter look on his face. Satisfied, or at least sated, he sat, staring at Arthur for a moment with an unreadable expression. 

“Now you listen to me- here’s how this is going to work,” he said, nerves suddenly steeled and cheeks dry, though Arthur could still see the tracks of tears along his cheeks. Dutch’s eyes were oceanic in nearly every way but color. Impossibly stormy and calm, rough and deep, icy cold, smothering, frightening, a thousand things Arthur could only barely put to words. “You...you and I, we're gonna have a talk. It ain't gonna be pretty, but I want you to hear me out. I’ll say what I need to say, you say whatever it is that you need to say, and after-after we're all done and said what we need to, if you still don’t want me here— or, or if you just... I’ll go. And… and that’s it.”

That's what Dutch wanted? A _conversation?_ All of this for a measly _talk?_ Arthur regarded him for a moment, and relented. Perhaps the fever burning through his skin had softened him, or maybe, just maybe, he hoped something might actually come of this. The smallest fragment of hope that whatever might be left of those twenty years between them could be salvaged. 

_“... Fine.”_

“Why did you leave?”

He would have laughed had the situation not been quite so dire. Out of _everything_ the man could have asked, _that_ was what he wanted to know? Was he really that naive, or was this another of his ploys? 

Whatever it was, Arthur couldn’t wrap his mind around it. So he answered.

“Don’t be a fool. You know damn well why I left—“ his ire sparked again, disgusted by Dutch’s mind games, matched with another bout of wet coughs. He had hoped for a reaction, for the smallest indication of guilt in the other's features, but Dutch remained quiet, composed. 

“Why don't you humor me?”

“You fuckin' _told_ me to,” Arthur hissed, voice strained and troubled.

“I wasn't—I didn’t think you would— You know I would never have meant it. I…” 

“Didn’t _mean_ it? That _fine_ bruise you left me suggested otherwise.”

“That… that was wrong of me,” Dutch breathed quietly. “And I was a damn fool, Arthur, and I swear to you, as soon as I figured that out, I was trying to right my wrongs. I did _everything_ , Arthur, _everything_ I could think of to find you.”

“Oh, I know you did,” Arthur snarled, _“Micah_ told me everything.”

Suddenly, violently, Arthur’s thoughts turned to Hamish, and Charlotte, and every other poor soul he had crossed paths with, tortured, dead, or worse because he had been foolish enough to befriend them. To Albert. He felt sick. If the nausea that roiled in his gut played on his face, though, Dutch didn’t react to it in the slightest. 

“ _Micah_ was a rat. I-I should have seen it sooner,I— Arthur. What he did— I swear I would never— “

“Never what? Threaten to kill me? _Run me off?_ ‘Cause I was _there_ for that part, Dutch! Goddamn, you was fixing to _lynch_ me! Why the hell else would I be out in the middle of fuckin nowhere?”

 _“Lynch you?”_ the man's voice dropped into something pitiful, something Arthur hadn't quite heard before. “Arthur, I thought you were _dead!_ Every goddamned second I was out there, I kept thinking I was going to find your _body_ and—”

“Bullshit—“

“I _saw_ what you wrote. In your journal,” A flash of anger tore across Arthur’s face, as the man went on, “—And... and I am... sorry about that. But you can’t just—“

And it’s back. That feeling, dark, dangerous, expecting; cold. Anger. Anger at Dutch. Anger at himself. The sheer, potent rage threatening to fracture open his chest. The burning desire to _hurt_ someone. Arthur wondered if he could take Dutch in a fight. He wondered if he could even bring himself to try. 

“Arthur…” Dutch’s voice was heavy and sad, weighing upon him in a way he’d not heard since Dutch told him of Bessie’s passing, but steady all the same. That steadiness wavered halfway through as he asked, “Do you want to die?”

Arthur paled. The blood rushed to his stomach, leaving him cold and useless. When he didn’t answer, Dutch buried his face in his hands. The man was cracking right before his eyes, and Arthur was slowly fracturing right alongside him. 

“God... I thought... I thought you’d... gotten better. I thought this was over... I should’ve known... Why didn’t you say something? I could’ve—”

Unexpectedly, Arthur burned with guilt as he thought about all the times he’d lamented his life; he thought of each casual mention of his constant desire to disappear, of every sentence he’d scribbled wondering why he hadn’t just worked up the nerve to kill himself. And Dutch had read it all. He thought Arthur was—

“ _That’s_... what’s got you all worked up?” Arthur chuckled dryly, “Dutch I’ve been wanting to die every single goddamned day in my life; this ain’t nothin’ new.”

“You should’ve— if you had only told me—“

“I did tell you! Ain’t my fault you thought I was joking…”

“Oh, Arthur…I am so sorry,” Dutch laid his head heavy in his hands, his shoulders trembling slightly.

There was a drawn out stretch of silence between them, Arthur unsure of what to say, and having little desire to try and say anything. He watched, envious, as the fear and panic of these past weeks slowly melted out of Dutch’s shoulders, and Arthur was struck with white-hot envy. The man acting as though a simply apology was enough for all the stupid shit that had taken place. The weight of those thoughts seemed to weigh upon him at once, breaking Arthur down to nothing. 

That _nothing_ bit and tore, leaving Arthur at the mercy of his runaway thoughts. After a moment, Dutch whimpered— honest to god whimpered, and Arthur hated him all the more for it:

“Arthur, do- do you... hate me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, good morning, and good night, my dearest little candy corns! 
> 
> And so Dutch and Arthur are again butting heads again, but this time they're conversing almost like adults! 
> 
> Finally we receive the answer to "what did Dutch read that had him so upset?"- He never realized just how much Arthur hates himself, and how horribly he had been treating his boy.
> 
> Like I've said, he's a moron. 
> 
> My dearests, if nobody has said it to you today, I'll say it: I appreciate you, and you matter to me. You make my days so much brighter, you guys!!! ♡♡♡♡ And a HUGE thank you to Em. You know what you did ♡
> 
> I'll see you all on Thursday! ♡♡♡♡♡♡ Be safe! ♡♡♡♡♡


	39. IV. IV

Do you hate me?

_Do you hate me?_

What the hell kind of question was _that?_

Those fucking words hung in the air for a second too long. They settled into Arthur’s skin, burrowing deep, clear to his bones. He was honestly caught off guard; quite a feat, considering how hard Arthur had worked to mentally prepare himself for whatever Dutch could throw at him.

He had spent so long utterly convinced that this man had been out for his blood, and hell if he hadn’t come to terms with the possibility that if not death, then disappointment and disgust would pour forth from his lips, casting away any hope that man had ever cared about him as more than a means to an end. And now? Now here he was, with the gall to ask something like _that?_

 _Did_ he hate him?

Arthur reeled for a moment, his thoughts scrabbling for purchase, entirely unsure of how, exactly, he should answer. 

Because the truth is: he _had_ hated Dutch.

Ever since he watched the man execute his pa in the middle of the street as though it were a spectacle, he hated him. Something dark and dangerous had been born that day. Sitting on the curb, alone, drowning in his own tears that darkness had grown. When Arthur planned and plotted those many years ago, intent on ending the man who had torn his life apart, he hated him. 

When Dutch and Hosea fought nonstop about having him around, and _again_ when the tables had turned and Dutch had lost interest in parenthood, he hated him. 

They hadn’t wanted Arthur; not really. He knew that Dutch had brought him back with the intention of dumping him as soon as he got what he wanted out of the boy, and Hosea had balked at the sight of a scruffy, bloodthirsty child from the start. 

Hosea was the one who decided to keep him— out of obligation, no doubt, or pity. Dutch hated the idea, once it wasn’t his own, and hated every day he spent with Arthur for years. But John? Oh, they wanted John. From the minute Dutch returned, a stick-thin, tiny boy stuck on his horse behind him, they looked at him as though he held the world in his hands. 

Arthur hated him then

His residency was always temporary. One wrong move, one misstep, and he’d be thrown away. Living on borrowed time, he knew. That fear lingered, it stuck, and every time it reared its ugly head, he hated Dutch all the more. 

_John_ never had that. He was loved and wanted from the get go, and held onto so tight that no matter how he messed up he always knew he was welcome back. In some sick, twisted way, he hated John for that. He hated every cheery smile Dutch gave the boy. 

Arthur recalls, very clearly, all the effort he put in to getting them to admit it; making them mad on purpose, giving them a reason not to want him. And at least— at least if he gave them a reason, if he knew they had a reason to not want him, he’d know why.

But he was _useful._

Damn it, he was useful. He didn’t know how _not_ to be, and maybe that hurt worse. They didn’t get rid of him because he was useful— but that doesn’t mean they _wanted_ him. Every time he ran a job and Dutch asked _how it went_ and not _how he was_ , he hated him.

But those feelings, that hatred, had always been overshadowed by something else. Something bigger, and meaner, and warmer, and _worse._

“I… please. I need to… to know.”

Arthur sighed. Dutch was trying.

Maybe he could try, too. He sucked in a deep breath and settled on the truth.

“I-I don’t _hate_ you, Dutch. Lord knows I tried, but— but I never could. Even when you’re acting a fool, even when you’re drunk, or angry, or just flat-out being an asshole, I couldn’t hate you. Not… not really.”

“Truly? Even after… Shit, Arthur, all the hell I’ve put you through, all the shit I’ve dumped on you, everything we’ve been through… your _arm_ , damn it, how could you not? How can you sit there and tell me you don’t hate me?”

His arm. Arthur swallowed; that topic was still a sensitive matter. He could barely bring himself to acknowledge it. There were times when he got up in the morning, and for the briefest, fleeting moment, he had forgotten. Arthur reached up, fingers wrapping protectively about the stump that was there.

He had, for a time, blamed Dutch. But it wasn’t Dutch's fault. He knew that. It wasn’t _anyone’s_ fault but the O’Driscolls, and he put them in the ground for it. His voice was cold, tight when he finally responded. 

“I don't blame you for that neither, Dutch. Ain't like you the one who fucked it up. I mean, sure, you ought’ve guessed it was a damn trap, but we were _both_ fools who went along with it, and you...well, you trusted Micah but it ain’t like you knew any better… none of us did.”

“I should have,” Dutch admitted, “You saw it; Hosea saw it. Hell, I think everyone saw it, and I-I just chose not to. I don't know— I mean, the shit they _did_ you you, and all 'cause I trusted his word more than yours. I should've known, Arthur I— I should have known.”

Arthur knew Micah had been the one to urge Dutch away from the crossroads; he knew, beneath the thick layers of doubt and pain, that Dutch wouldn't have just left him so cavalierly. Not his Dutch. Not the Dutch he used to know. He had no idea if Dutch would've come to get him out of that cellar; he supposed it didn't matter too much now. 

“It's over with, Dutch,” Arthur said gently, perhaps too gently. That anger was still there, but there was a part of him that just could not hold onto it. Not when Dutch was like this. “I mean...you saved me, in the end, I guess. That's what matters, right?”

He was met with silence. Uncomfortable silence that ate away at his nerves. That anger fading back into fear, the feeling as though he was being judged. The fact Dutch didn't answer, didn't reaffirm his speculation, sat ill with him. 

Arthur refused to fall back into that heavy, creeping silence. He continued, awkwardly, suddenly unwilling to look Dutch in the eye. 

“Sides, even if I _did_ hate you— I think you done made up for all that by now,” Arthur swallowed back against a stray cough. He only barely pieced together what had become of Micah. Dutch didn’t seem keen on reliving their reunion, but at least had the decency to tell Arthur the man was dead and gone, “You always done your best for us, I can see that. A-and sure, I might wish things was different but… I could never _hate_ you. I _should_ , God knows that I should, yet somehow, despite all the shit you’ve dragged me into, I am.. I'm still awful fond of you, you old bastard.”

Dutch’s head shot up at that, comically childlike and surprised.

“You… You can’t possibly mean that.”

“I'm saying it, ain't I?” Arthur frowned. What more did the man want? A performance? A blood pact? He watched as Dutch bowed his head again. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m sorry for those things I said. I never… I never… thought you would… I should never have said any of that,” Dutch gripped his own hands tight, but Arthur could still see the way they shook, “I thought I’d lost you… I really did. Thought I could never… apologize. For being such a fucking idiot and running you off like I did.“

Rambling again. Unpracticed, unfocused. The words spilled out of Dutch before he could catch them, and it sparked something warm and fond in his chest. He preferred Dutch like this. No plans. No speech. 

Just Dutch. 

Just Arthur.

“Weren’t just you,” Arthur reassured him quietly, perhaps telling the _full_ truth for the first time that night; maybe even the first time in years, “It was… _everything._ Lots of things, really, got me thinking it’d be best if I moved along. Then Micah said you done and gone read my journal. Read all them things I wrote and....” Arthur swallowed, that fear returning, “And knowing I was thinking— I knew a part of you might could kill me and I—”

“My boy,” Dutch breathed, cutting off his muttering. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears, “I would never. I could never.”

All those fears, the burning dread that had driven him to the far reaches of the desert, evaporated like mist within the drying heat, chased off by the sheer sincerity in Dutch's words, in his face. Arthur could suddenly breathe. He should have known the rat was lying. He should have known— the thought was lost as he heard the sound, turning to Dutch, watching as the man hastily wiped away tears. The damn fool was actually crying. Arthur felt something inside shift dangerously at that. 

“Ah, _shit_ , c’mon, don’t you go gettin emotional on me,” he tried to lighten the situation; felt the tears sting at his own eyes, listening to the stifled sob that was wrenched from the man's throat. The sound carried with it a fulminant ache that struck Arthur to his marrow. 

“Arthur, you have no idea— how many things I have wanted to tell you. These past weeks, thinking that—” he had to stop, to catch his breath, to wipe away more tears, “and there ain't nothing wrong with showin’ what we mean, son.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, knowing there was some truth to that, uncomfortable as it may be, “but you listen here, you gonna get me going, so do me a favor and _quit,_ will you? You said I had to listen, didn't say a damn thing about having to cry, you old fool.”

“You don't understand,” Dutch breathed, unappreciative of his attempted intervention, still clutching onto the wild thoughts racing through his head, “you— you actually thought I was going to— _Jesus Christ,_ you must’ve been… _terrified…_ ”

Terrified hadn't even begun to cover it. But he said nothing. Arthur simply couldn't bring himself to wound the man further, regardless of how well-deserved it was. After a few shuddering breaths, the man wiped at his eyes again, continuing. 

“I—I’m— Arthur, I fucked up, and you almost died because I couldn't pull my head out of my ass for two goddamned seconds to listen to you. You were hurting and I didn't even _try_ to help. You have every right to be fucking furious at me— I.... I let you down. I drove you to this, and I was so blinded that I... I... I’m so sorry, Arthur. It doesn’t mean shit, I know, but I am. For everything— for every single goddamned thing I’ve ever done to you.For everything I should have done, and didn't. I'm sorry...”

That apology held heavy in the thick air between them.

“... thought you wouldn’t want me anymore,” Arthur admitted after a second, quietly, feeling something inside him fracture and break, “Thought… thought you wanted me gone… cause I wasn’t any good to you no more… I-I ain’t got an _arm_ , Dutch, I— ”

Try as he might to keep himself steady, to maintain some level of dignity, Arthur’s voice wavered as he felt himself come undone. 

  
  
  


Dutch had known Arthur for over two decades. That thought stirred something in his stomach, but he could quite place what. Somehow, those years had passed too quickly and too slow all at once, the memories jumbled and hazy with time. In that time, the pair of them had stared death in the eye hundred of times. More than a dozen of those were distinct instances where one of them sincerely doubted the other would make it through the night; Hosea’s number was far lower, something Dutch surely could count on one hand; that dozen was shared between Arthur and Dutch alone. Plenty of that dozen were Arthur’s, reckless as he was. He’d seen just about everything there was to the man— perhaps more than anyone else ever had, and certainly more than Arthur had ever wanted him to see.

His thoughts quickly shuffled through all of the people they had lost. All of the makeshift funerals he and Arthur sat through. The graves they dug together in silence. He remembered burying Annabelle. And Bessie. Luckily, as if luck had any place, they didn’t have to bury Eliza and Isaac. Someone had already done that for them. Still, the way Arthur’s face hardened into stone, the way his hands shook— Dutch’s hands, too— the way they both quietly mourned in the dark depths of the woods, as Dutch watched Arthur, too young, far too young, try to find some peace at the bottom of the bottle— all of it was burnt into his memory. Dutch wished he could’ve followed suit and drank away his feelings, but somebody had to keep an eye on the pair of them. That was the first time the duty had fallen to Dutch and not Hosea, who was inconsolable in his own right.

In all that time, all those years, and the years they had spent together, he could call to memory only a few times when he saw Arthur like this. 

Crying. 

Trembling

Hand gripped tight into the fabric of Dutch’s shirt, his whole body shaking with fever and feelings. Perhaps it was the lingering draw of morphine, or the release of months, maybe even _years_ , worth of exhaustion.

“Thanks,” he croaked, barely a whisper, voice weak and unsure in ways Dutch _hated_ , “... for uh, you know. Coming to find me. I didn't think— I thought—“

With a hesitance Dutch couldn’t quite explain, he held Arthur’s face in his hands. Arthur’s skin was still feverishly warm under his palm, but Dutch didn’t quite mind it. Certainly, it was a dramatic improvement from the past days. 

He should have come sooner. Dutch drowned in that thought. 

“Ain’t a goddamned thing could’ve stopped me,” Dutch whispered softly. 

For a moment, and nothing more, they allowed themselves to believe that everything would be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you :) 
> 
> Part two of Dutch and Arthur actually acting like adults and talking, and boy, what a doozy! Got us some crying, some good, healthy emotions!! They're on their way to working things out ♡
> 
> I don’t know when you’re reading this; could be today, or tomorrow, or years from now. But know that I love you all the same, and I appreciate you! And I’ll pour all my love into my words, so you can feel it loud and clear, whenever you might be! Thank you for being here :) And hey, if you're coming through again on a re-read, well, I love you all the more! 
> 
> My dearest, sweetest little vampire bats, spread your wings and fly high! I adore you all, you tiny transformed vampires, just out there trying to make a living ♡♡♡ And I'll see you on Sunday! ♡♡♡♡♡♡


	40. IV. V

Arthur startled awake to pain throbbing in his gut; not an uncommon occurrence these days, but unwelcome all the same. His fever still burned low, leaving him miserable and heavy, but at least he was coherent and could walk on his own without Dutch tucked against him. 

Dutch had set off into Armadillo late that morning, deeming Arthur well enough to be left on his own for a few hours. The silence of his absence wore on Arthur, settled into his bones, and left him to marinate in the quiet of New Austin with nothing to distract him. Dutch didn’t let him drink, not while he was awash in the gentle haze of morphine just as he had been since the day his arm was removed. He shuddered at the idea of Dutch wielding so much power over him; how many times had the man happily drugged him into oblivion? The emptiness of the vial alluding to the suggestion it had been quite a few. And yet...a part of him knew that Dutch meant no harm, the idea solidifying as Dutch yielded the morphine to his control as soon as he was coherent enough to use it. He still didn’t trust Arthur enough to drink though, so instead Arthur laid in bed, alone in a house that wasn’t his, and thought. 

He didn’t want to, though. The thoughts forced themselves forward, painfully stubborn.

He thought of Charlotte, alone in that homestead tucked away in the north. She would have invited the bastard in with that gentle smile of hers; would have offered coffee or a warm meal, or perhaps just her company. She wouldn’t have even known anything was amiss— last she’d seen of Arthur was all those months ago when he’d given her their last marksmanship lesson. 

Maybe he killed her quick. Maybe that’s all he did. Micah wasn’t one for wasting time, usually— not with strangers. Not with people who could do nothing for him. But the man was dangerous, desperate; if Charlotte had offered even the slightest resistance, he might have come unhinged entirely. Arthur swallowed back against nausea. 

Maybe someone would find her. Maybe they’d bury her next to Cal, the way she’d like. 

He thought of Albert. He’d have to send a letter to his family. If he’d made it into Armadillo, which was unlikely, given the generous drops of blood that now laced through the desert, they would have buried him already. Maybe burned him, which seemed to be Armadillo’s method of choice for ridding the town of the dead. Albert deserved better than that; better than him. 

He thought of Hamish and could think of him no longer, not without his breath catching quick and his chest aching terribly. 

Another in his lengthy list of unforgivable sins, he supposed. Another line in a letter he had yet to write.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. Arthur still tried to suppress and stifle the sobs that wracked his gaunt frame, even though there was nobody around to hear them.

Those ghosts tormented him, whispered to him, lurked and sat and festered, ate at him until Arthur was entirely hollow. He stayed hollow; had _been_ hollow. Not even the news of Micah’s death had done anything to fill the void; a bullet to the head was far kinder than he deserved. Finally presented with a chance to rid the world of that snake and he couldn’t even do _that_ right. 

A deep breath. Another. Arthur pushed to his feet, unsteadily. He leaned heavy on the walls as he picked his way through the small cabin. The longer he stayed, the louder the jeers and pained cries of those awful phantoms grew. Micah joined their number, his prodding taunts echoing among the rest. 

Arthur couldn’t bear to be there any longer. 

He stumbled into the open air of New Austin, cringing at the suffocating heat that immediately pressed upon him. He sucked in a stifled breath, and was met with a nervous snort and the arrhythmic stamping of hooves. 

Not Odessa, though for a moment his heart skipped at the flash of inky black hide. Not Odessa, though tethered where he had kept her.

Not Odessa.

Baylock. 

Dutch had tied the beast just outside. Arthur wasn’t quite sure why. Without Micah, Baylock had grown skittish and unpredictable. Though somewhere in his gut Arthur felt the writhing of anger and vengeance, even that was quickly numbed.

From this close, he could see the scars torn into his hide, some open and oozing, others scabbed, and a good number pink and smooth. Spur marks, Arthur realized, dug into his side. 

He felt a pang of sorrow for the horse that briefly bit through the overwhelming grief that had consumed him. Arthur offered a conciliatory word as he passed by, the fox trotter watching his every move with a great deal of caution. 

“Your man did a number of the both of us, huh?” he asked, his voice raw and slight, “You ain’t deserved none of this…” his lip quivered, “… maybe I didn’t neither.” 

He placed a gentle, soft hand on Baylock’s rump; the horse stilled immediately under his touch, settling slightly when he realized a switch wasn’t to follow. 

Arthur managed the slightest smile at that, one chased away all too quickly by the gnashing jaws of guilt and shame. He could offer nothing else.

He could still find the bloodstains if he tried hard enough. His body ached. He squeezed his eyes shut against the wave of specters that washed through his mind.

When he opened them again, they stuck fast on a small wooden cross and an empty patch of freshly turned dirt, and he couldn’t break them away again.

Dutch had buried Odessa. 

He’d told Arthur this, apparently several times, just before descending into that stick, endless silence, but Arthur could only remember asking once. When Arthur could hold a conversation without forgetting his own words a minute later, Dutch pressed a braided lock of her dark tail into his hand.

“I’m sorry, son,” he’d said, laying his hand gently on Arthur’s thigh, his own voice heavy with a depth of sorrow that Arthur hadn’t expected, “She… She was a good one. And she loved you very much.”

“Yeah…” Arthur swallowed against the bile in his throat, “Yeah…”

He collapsed into himself then, sobbing quietly in that empty room, still desperately clutching the braid in his palm. 

Now, too, he clutched it tight. It was the first he’d seen of her resting place. Arthur let himself drown, let himself collapse at that grave and wallow and cry and sob and lose himself in grief, as though every life he’d ever ended lay just beneath that soil.

“I would have picked a better spot,” Dutch admitted quietly. Arthur startled at the sudden voice, unaware that the man had returned, “But I… it was just me, and—“

“’s fine,” Arthur said, numb, distant, “It’s…”

“How long have you been out here? You’re shivering…”

He was and had only just realized it. His fingers had gone numb in the cool evening air. His knees screamed, unhappy to be pinned into the dirt for so long. He could offer no answer though; time had slipped past without him realizing, and now the sun had settled low and heavy over the horizon.

“Come on, let’s head inside—“

“I can’t,” Arthur bit out, digging his fingers into the soil, “It’s— I…”

Dutch’s face softened.

“Why don’t I start a fire, then?”

Dutch set about stoking a small campfire, keeping a watchful gaze on Arthur all the while, though the man seemed miles away. His own features tugged into a steady, pained frown. 

“How was Bill?” Arthur asked, filling the awful stillness in the air, as if worried Dutch were simply another of the ghosts set upon him. Testing. Validating. Hoping to get a response to prove the man wasn’t just a figment.

“Pissed off, as one might expect,” Dutch chuckled dryly, “But I sent him back to camp. I’m sure folks must be losing their minds right now, we’ve been gone a while…”

Arthur’s stomach squeezed painfully. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of the rest of the gang; hadn’t wanted to. Dutch helped him to stand, frowning at the weakness in Arthur’s uncoordinated limbs. He settled Arthur by the fire, moving to untack The Count

“… You’re going to get quite the homecoming party though. Susan can complain all she’d like, but I’ll see to it that you receive a proper welcome.”

Arthur poked at the fire, shifting back against the tree stump; frustration, exhaustion, and anxiety all folded together and churned inside of him. Words he needed to say died in his throat, burrowing there and refusing to come. Instead, he gave a noncommittal hum.

“Hosea and John should be here in a few days,” Dutch offered. 

Another hum, equally as empty but thrumming with something icy and bitter. Arthur folded his hand over his stomach, careful not to jostle his still-healing wound. 

It was a rare desert night that was just a little too cold to get comfortable and a little too windy for his taste.The temperamental weather of New Austin was simply abhorrent. Crisp and clear though it was, he cursed the chill that had sunk into his scarred shoulder and silently resolved to never return south once this all was at an end. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine what that end might be.

Arthur didn’t so much as look in Dutch’s direction as the man settled in next to him. He sat to Arthur’s left, mercifully blocking him from the worst of the wind. Perhaps it was intentional, or perhaps an opportunity for extra space, a place to sit where Arthur’s arm used to be. Arthur didn’t mind either way. 

They sat like that for nearly an hour, as the sky blackened above them, freckled and storied where it peeked from beneath the clouds.

“Nice night,” Dutch muttered, finally, tilting his head back towards the stars. . Arthur kept his eyes firmly fixed on the dimly glowing remnants of their fire.

A third hum. Arthur’s thoughts had ground to a halt.

Dutch watched him for a moment, then shifted, digging in his satchel.

He handed Arthur the journal wordlessly. Arthur balked at the state of the thing; swollen pages, bookmarks and loose papers all stuffed into that worn leather cover.

Blankly, he shuffled through the wreckage. 

The pages Micah had torn free were roughly returned to their resting places, still wrinkled and bloodied. Dutch had put them back. Arthur couldn’t look at them long before nausea rolled over him.

There were notes, too. Tons of them, scribbled in Dutch’s handwriting on whatever spare paper the man could find and tucked wherever they fit. 

He started at his journal for a second, letting out a low whistle, “You really did a number on this thing, didn’t you?”

“It was all we had,” Dutch admitted quietly, “I didn’t… let anyone else see.”

Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“’S okay.”

“Your prose has improved greatly,” Dutch teased with an unsure grin as he elbowed Arthur’s side, “… I especially liked the parts about me.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned at those words. 

“And…” Dutch picked a folded paper from his pocket, “I suppose I should return this.”

The portrait. He’d drawn the damn thing one evening, just before the ferry job. It was one of many, the others burned in a fire or discarded on scraps of paper left to drift in the breeze. But this one— this one had been worn down, folded, smudged—

 _appreciated._

He drew in a deep breath, that fond smile wavering as he traced Dutch’s face. He pressed it back into Dutch’s palm, and without a second thought threw his journal into the fire, watching the embers dance upwards and spring to life once more, consuming the pages.

“Arthur!” Dutch started forward, as if to salvage the ashes, “What are you doing? Why would you—”

“Ah…” Arthur watched a cloudy breath mingle with the smoke as it curled into the stars, “I needed a fresh start anyhow.”

Dutch settled back in, carefully watching Arthur’s face as he did. 

They sat like that, soaking in the silence of Don Julio. If they tried hard enough, they could pretend that this was all there was. 

“Look there,” Dutch hummed, gesturing towards the cloudy night sky, breaking the steadfast silence between them, “Ursa major.”

Arthur squinted at the pattern of stars overhead.

“… right.”

Dutch chuckled, “… I ever tell you ‘bout the first time I stole a bear?”

Arthur’s eyes flickered over to him, if only for a moment. 

“... fairly sure I was right there with you for that one.”

“No, you were there the second time. The first time—“

“You stole _two_ bears?

“I stole _three_ bears.”

In that second, that moment, everything washed away. It was as if they both were young again, sitting together by that old creek bed near that old house they’d stayed in for nearly half a year— the one Dutch hated because it was full of crickets. There was nothing but the pair of them, the pain of the last months dissolved with every word Dutch shared, Arthur soaking them in like the last bit of warm sunshine before the turn of winter. 

Arthur let out a deep, warm breath, watching it billow into the cold mighty air like smoke. 

Surely it must be midnight by now, yet he evaded sleep so easily. Something pulled inside of his chest— a mournful reminder of nights painfully similar to this one; nights he would spend tucked up against Dutch. 

The thought burned his cheeks and sank in his stomach like stones. An embarrassment; a reminder of the things he had thrown away and those he never should have had to begin with. He couldn’t help the frown tugging at his mouth. An emotion similar in taste to regret washed over him. For the first time in days, the chorus of dismal memories quieted. 

He tilted his head back to watch the stars overhead. There were a thousand things he wanted to say; questions he wanted to ask. All of it stayed, stuck fast in his lungs. 

Maybe some other night. 

“The last time we did something like this…” Dutch sounded lost in thought, far, far away from the moment that had Arthur so desperately trapped, “I think it was way back when, when Hosea left us on our own for a year…”

Arthur remembered. Of course he remembered. Hosea had left them on their own; there was no gang yet, no family. Just Dutch. The memories were heavy and thick on his tongue. He coursed with shame and disgust. Those were some of the worst days of his life.

“I think…” Dutch continued, “Even with everything that’s happened… I think those were some of the best days of my life.”

Arthur’s heart sank; for a second, all he could do was stare at Dutch with wide eyes. Acting quickly, he covered his unease with a grin.

“Dutch, we both almost died. We were a damn scourge— almost burned down half the country without Hosea reining us in.”

“I know….” Dutch said, so painfully soft that Arthur was certain he was recalling different days, “… But still.”

Arthur’s face fell again. He stared, eyes painfully sharp even in the dim firelight, searching Dutch’s face.

Arthur sneered. He forced himself to stand on too-weak legs, ignoring the painful bite of his still-healing wounds. 

_“Bastard.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello good morning, goodnight, my spooky goblins! 
> 
> Lots of things happened in this one. Arthur is recovering! Dutch is Dutch! The journal got burned! 
> 
> And I wonder what got Arthur so upset about those memories... huh....
> 
> The final four chapters. This is it, y'all: the end. Kind of. It's fairly smooth sailing from here!
> 
> Love you! See you on Tuesday! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡


	41. IV. VI

The sun rose to find Dutch already moving through the day. 

In the time before sunrise, he’d already bathed, seen to The Count and Baylock, and made a pot of coffee. He’d even straightened the cabin as best he could, rolling his bedding and stowing his belongings in the corner. 

The small homestead had fallen into disarray in the past days, since dragging a dying Arthur out from the dirt and summoning every ounce of triage knowledge that Hosea had taught him. There was hardly time for housekeeping with Arthur inching closer to death with every passing second. 

He wiped his hair out of his face; without pomade, the dark ringlets seemed keen on doing as they pleased, similarly to the scruff on his cheeks. Unwieldy, but decidedly relaxed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so woefully underdressed; his vest had been too thoroughly soaked with blood to be salvaged and had been subsequently burned. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, a vain attempt at keeping the oppressive head of New Austin at bay. 

He was already damp with sweat but there was simply no time to rest. Not today.

As their meager breakfast finished cooking, oatmeal with canned strawberries, nothing particularly fancy, Dutch went to check on Arthur. The man was usually well awake by this point.

Today though, the small bedroom was still. 

“Rise and shine, Arthur,” Dutch said pointedly, “Busy day today.”

Arthur shot upright, heart thundering out of his chest, pounding heavy and fast. His skin rolled with sweat. He scrambled backwards, slamming hard against the headboard.

Dutch flinched at the sudden movement. 

Eyes wide, and brimming with tears, Arthur’s gaze settled in the far corner of the room; past Dutch, as though the man weren’t there at all. 

“Arthur...?” Dutch asked, brow furrowed, “What’s wrong?”

The only response was Arthur’s heaving breaths, too quick, too shallow, too loud. 

A pang of panic. The exhaustion that had seeped into Dutch’s voice over the past days was immediately replaced with concern, “Arthur— Arthur, you’re all right, it’s just me—“

He touched Arthur’s arm gently, but Arthur startled back violently as though he’d been burned. 

“Calm down, son, what’s— it’s just me, what’s the matter?”

He was thankful, momentarily, that Arthur didn’t seem to have the sense about him to throw a punch. The way Arthur stared at him though, past him, with wide, childlike eyes, scanning the empty room as though it were filled to burst with threats, well, it made Dutch’s heart ache in a very familiar way. 

“No, no, he’s still here,” Arthur gasped, struggling for air, “You gotta—He’s still—“

“What? Who’s here? You aren’t making any sense,” Dutch wrapped his hand around Arthur’s wrist, hoping the touch might bring him back from whatever nightmare had taken hold of him. 

“He’s here, he’s….” Arthur swallowed back bile, “Don’t touch me, d-don’t— don’t—“

He trembled like a newborn fawn, shook like a leaf, quivered like a kitten, or a thousand other equally fragile, equally wrong things. 

Dutch sat on the foot of the bed, his own heart hammering in his ears, wondering if perhaps his fever had spiked again during the night, some unseen enemy wreaking havoc on his boy.

Unseen, but not unfamiliar. 

“Arthur,” Dutch held Arthur’s face in both hands, pressing in close as he could despite Arthur’s pounding breaths, despite his weak protests, “Look at me, Arthur.”

Briefly, Arthur tore his eyes out of that corner, his gaze flickering to Dutch and back. He wheezed, “He’s— He’s—“

“Nobody’s here, darlin, it’s just us… You’re scaring me a bit…”

Dutch’s stomach dropped; it was the same. The look in Arthur’s eyes, he realized, a perfect recreation of the night he’d tried to get Arthur into Armadillo. He felt a slight tremble set into his hands, but ignored it as best he could; a problem for later, decided. Questions for later.

“Du..tch…?” Arthur whispered, sounding absolutely, completely terrified. 

“Atta boy, talk to me.”

“He’s… He… he was….”

Arthur swallowed something back again as recognition slowly filtered back into his eyes. Dutch pulled his hands back.

“You okay?” 

Arthur nodded stiffly, casting one final glance back to the corner before settling on Dutch.

“Well,” Dutch offered a too-bright smile, “Good morning.”

Arthur set his eyes to the floor and cleared his throat, “S-sorry, I, uh…”

“What was it?”

Arthur gnawed on his lip. He drew in a steadying breath. 

“Dutch… Do you remember my father?”

Dutch pursed his lips tight, working his jaw.

“I do.”

He did. Sometimes. Those were memories he had shoved down, far away from his waking thoughts. But he remembered. Seeing the look in Arthur’s eyes, he remembered. 

According to the law, Lyle Morgan was a habitual thief and nothing more. The law didn’t care too much about the man, rather choosing to focus only on the actions that actually broke one of their rules. He was a man hardly worth the time it took to tack his bounty poster to the wall. Dutch knew better than that, though. 

Lyle Morgan was a bastard in every sense of the word, a foul-tempered, impotent man with a distinct hatred for weakness. He saw that weakness in himself, more often than not, what with his bum leg and general inability to function as anything more than a burden on society. Lyle Morgan saw in himself the very things he detested in others, and blamed the world for it. He drank, he stole, he screamed, he beat on his wife and child, and thought still he was better than every man he ever came across. He was a coward. 

They ran jobs together. Perhaps ‘together’ was not the right word. Lyle was an opportunity; drunk, loud, violent, and hated just enough that Dutch and Hosea could slip in and out quietly while the attention was on him. 

He knew Lyle Morgan, and he hated him more every day. The details of his initial hatred were, admittedly, fuzzy, gone gray with time, but every day it seems he’d been given a new reason to detest the man. 

He knew what he did to Arthur. He heard tales of some of the worst the man had done. Not from Arthur, though, who only ever offered the scantest, drunk retellings— he heard from others, folks he came across later who whispered about Lyle’s demise. 

The panics Arthur suffered as a child spawned from his tenure as Lyle’s whipping boy. The nightmares that still plagued him on occasion were from Lyle Morgan’s detestable ways as well. The scars that crossed Arthur’s skin, long faded by now, were bit by the man’s switch. 

He should’ve guessed this, too, was Lyle Morgan’s doing.

“You uh… You know how he’d… he’d get himself mad and take it out on folks what don’t deserve it?”

“Sure,” Dutch answered, cautious. 

“How he’d drink all the damn time, and how he’d always… say things…”

Dutch furrowed his brows tight, “Where are you going with this?”

“How he was always so angry at the world and took it out on people? Or how he was so quick to beat on folks that didn’t rightly deserve it, cause he liked seeing em bleed? Or how he’d run off like a goddamned coward at the first sign of trouble, and how he took advantage of folks who didn’t know any better and— and you remember what he sounded like?“

“Arthur, stop, take a breath. What are you getting at?”

Arthur turned his face away, twisted into a frown. 

“You uh… You remember what he looked like? Like— Like— ”

“Arthur no, you—“ realization washed over Dutch’s face, followed by deep, fathomless sorrow. 

“Just like me?”

Ice ran through his veins; those nights ago, had Arthur been remembering—

The thought made him nauseous.  _ “Not like him” _ Arthur had said, and Dutch finally understood just how monumentally he had fucked up. 

“Arthur you— when I tried to—“ he swallowed thick, opting instead to let those memories fester in his mind alone, “Don’t be a fool, you are nothing like your father. Not one damn thing.”

“You don’t gotta lie to me, Dutch, you think I can’t remember his face? I see it every time I look in a mirror, I know I’m the spitting image of that bastard! And I tried— I really did— to keep myself from becoming him but—”

“Lyle Morgan was a self-aggrandizing, narcissistic sociopath with absolutely nothing to redeem him. Arthur, you are not your father. I need you to trust me, son: you’ve grown into such a good, kind man.”

“I hurt folks, Dutch! I beat a man to death cause he looked at me wrong! How you gonna say I’m good when—when…. I been seeing him”, Arthur admitted, “All that time that I was down, back in camp, he was there, same as ever. And... and then I wake up, and he’s staring at me, his picture on the wall. Now he’s— he’s always there, just out of sight.”

Dutch drew in a deep, heavy breath, and left.

Honestly, Arthur was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner; surprised the man had stuck around as long as he did, with the evidence of Arthur’s vile transformation staring him in the face. He was only further surprised when Dutch came back. In his hands, a bottle of brandy; the good stuff, the kind Dutch always seemed hesitant to share. 

Wordlessly, despite the early hour, he took a swig from the bottle. He handed it to Arthur, and sat right beside him, their thighs pressed against each other.

“Drink,” he said, finally, in response to Arthur’s dumbfounded stare, “Go on then, you’re…. You’ll need it.”

Arthur took a long pull from the bottle.

Dutch fixed his eyes on the floor, lost in thought for a moment. There was a graveness to his features that set Arthur on edge, even with the warm glow of brandy in his stomach. 

For a minute, they sat like that, until Dutch drew in a deep breath.

“Son… when Eliza got pregnant…”

That sobered Arthur up quick; it had been a long time since Arthur had heard that name spoken aloud. His jaw clenched together tight, and he wrapped his hand around the bottle so fiercely it might burst beneath his grip.

Dutch saw this and scooted just a little closer.

“You didn’t come back that night. I found you drunk off your ass, sat up on a cliff, absolutely inconsolable. We sat there, and you told me, and I… I just held you tight, hoping I could help you feel even a little better. Hell, I had no idea what I was doing either, but… God, you were so scared. After a while, you looked at me, stone cold sober for a moment, and you made me promise— ” Dutch let out a harsh sigh, a frown pulled across his face, “You made me promise that if you ever turned into your father, I would shoot you dead without hesitation.”

“Don’t… Don’t remember that at all.”

Dutch chuckled, “No, you wouldn’t. But I do; every second. You made me swear that I would, and I did. And I’ve kept that promise. You know I don’t take things like that lightly. You aren’t your father, Arthur Morgan. You might look a bit like him, and that’s only just barely, but you ain’t him. You are so much more than he could have ever hoped to be. Thinking otherwise would make me a dishonest man, and, well, I don’t quite appreciate that.”

“Dutch, you’re the most dishonest man I ever met,” Arthur managed a short laugh, one that brought a flash of brightness to Dutch’s features as well. 

“Sure, sure. But you know what I mean. If you can’t… If you can’t trust in yourself, trust in me, and…” Dutch sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, “Arthur… About last night…”

“What about it?”

“I’m… I didn’t mean to upset you. I know those days were… Difficult. I wasn’t thinking, Arthur. And I’m not sure I ever… Ever apologized for what occurred.”

“Apologized?”

Back then, for one blessedly whole year, it was just Dutch. It was before John; before bounties, before Annabelle and Eliza, before the gang. He remembered that year, alone with Dutch, all too well; how close the two had become, how perfect everything felt, if Arthur could only close his eyes and imagine the world weren’t on fire around them.

How Dutch was far too eager to ignore all of that the moment Hosea returned; how once he had someone, anyone, else, Arthur was pushed by the wayside. How hopeful he had been that things would change— and they did. 

It was the beginning of his tenure as a workhorse. The beginning of the end. As if every single moment the pair had spent together was some kind of cruel joke, or perhaps forgotten entirely in a haze of embarrassment and shame. Either way, not one single day of that year they’d spent relying so completely on each other was ever mentioned again. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure how much of it Dutch remembered. Not much, if the softness in the man’s tone were anything to judge by, but regardless, he had an inkling that he knew what Dutch was about to say. 

“What happened then was… wrong. And I’m sorry I put you through that; I was so swept up by everything, by Hosea being gone that I— but I thought that, since reading your journal, I was thinking maybe I had misinterpreted but—“

… But that wasn’t it. Arthur blinked owlishly at him, trying to reconcile the man’s words with his own memories of those days. 

“Dutch,” he asked after a moment, “What in the  _ hell _ are you talking about?

“Those… Those  _ advances. _ All those years ago, all that time we spent together. I’m sorry for— for taking advantage of the situation like that…. I… I never apologized for it, and— It just wasn’t right. I made you uncomfortable and—”

Advances?  _ Dutch’s advances? _ Arthur’s brain stumbled over the idea. It was almost as if they were remembering two separate instances altogether. As far as he was aware,  Dutch had only barely accepted Arthur's closeness; the man had let him curl up next to him at the fire until he fell asleep on his shoulder without complaint. He hadn't seemed to mind each and every time Arthur sidled up next to him while he read. Later, of course, far from the warm glow of those days, Arthur realized the man done his best to hide his discomfort, had merely tolerated his clinginess, if that. A means to an end, perhaps, or a way to keep Arthur from leaving like Hosea had.  He sure as hell never made any kind of  _ advances,  _ and perhaps more than that—

“You— wait, hold on a minute— You sure you actually remember everything that—“

“Of course!”

“And you’re saying  _ you’re _ sorry for taking advantage of  _ me? _ That  _ you  _ made  _ me _ uncomfortable?”

“Repetition is unbecoming. I’m  _ clearly _ trying to apologize”

Arthur studied his face carefully, searching for any signs of deception. Finding none, he instead blurted, “Dutch, what the _ fuck?” _

“Language.”

“If _ anything _ , I’m the one what made you goddamned  _ uncomfortable _ ! I— you were hurt, damnit, and I—”

“That’s nonsense, Arthur, don’t be ridiculous.”

Arthur balked, trying and failing to find the right words. Unable to gasp any in particular, he simply stared at Dutch for a moment before clarifying:

“You was so quick to shack up again right after that I thought— Well, some days I thought you’d just been toying with me, sure, but mostly I thought you was… was disappointed. Embarrassed, I guess? Hell if I know, but you ain’t need to faggot kid on top of everything else—“

“Arthur, I— you thought… I— that year we spent together, that was the first time I caught a glimpse of the man you’d become, and I remember you sitting right by my side, squeezing my hand so tight, and talkin to me. I— I recall looking at you, as you was looking so goddamned tired but keepin watch over me anyhow, and thinkin’ ‘bout how good of a man you’d grown into. I remember wondering how in the hell you ended up so— so gentle. So... capable.”

A warm chuckle from Arthur, followed by the slightest of headshakes, “You’re the one that raised me, ain’t no surprise.”

“I might be a gentleman, but I am far from gentle I’m afraid.”

“I beg to differ. You getting sappy on me again, old man?”

“Perhaps… Point is, Arthur, I— I admired that about you. And... I am… I realized….” For a moment, it looked as though Dutch were about to say something. He held the look of a man with thoughts bigger than his mouth, which was quite a feat, “I realized I need to be better. To you, t-to everyone. I promise you, upon our return to camp, things are going to be different, Arthur. I—”

Again those words welled inside of him, but this time, he forced them out into the open.

“I-“ Arthur gripped his empty shoulder as tight as he could bear, trying to hide the ripple of emotion that ran through his body as he did, “I-I ain’t goin back...”

Dutch paused, his face unreadable before it dropped in a flash,  _ “Excuse me?” _

“I ain’t goin back, Dutch. I can’t.”

“Arthur that’s— of course you can, what do you mean?”

“I mean— Ain’t… Ain’t this the whole point?” Arthur asked, “Pinkertons are gone, you can get the Blackwater money— you can take the gang and go find a new life someplace! But—”

“ _ We _ , son.  _ We _ can find a new life—“ Dutch raised his hands as if pleading, though his voice sounded tense and raw. 

“I already did that, Dutch. I got mine, and I don’t… I can’t give it up yet.”

“Will you… consider it, at least? I promise, things will be different.  _ I _ will be different. We can— we can go west, wherever you want, just—“

“Okay, Dutch,” Arthur conceded, “I’ll… I’ll think on it.”

Dutch wrapped Arthur’s hand between his own, “Thank you, I— thank you. Now then! Let’s get you looking half decent! We’ve got company coming.”

Arthur’s stomach felt filled with lead in that moment, heavy and useless. His heart thundered at the suggestion. His empty shoulder throbbed.

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear little omens! A bit later than I usually post, but someone is exhausted... it's me. I woke up late. 
> 
> So this chapter and the one before it set up the premise for the prequel: Evergreen! Isn't that exciting? 
> 
> Our boys talk a bit more, they share some feelings, Arthur finally talks about his dad... It's a good time all around! And SOMEONE is coming to visit soon... wonder who ;)
> 
> Love you all so, so much! You matter to me more than you'll ever know! ♡♡♡♡♡ See you Thursday! ♡


	42. IV. VII

_ “Arthur!” _ Hosea damn near kicked the door down, panic plain on his face, “Where is he?”

His entrance scared the ever-loving shit out of Dutch, who had just set about fixing a pot of coffee and startled hard enough to scatter coffee grounds across the floor. 

“Jesus, Hosea— didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?” Dutch chuckled to cover the pounding of his heart. The dangerously unhinged look in Hosea’s eye killed any lightness in his tone. He had no time for levity. 

“Cut the shit, Dutch,” Hosea growled, “Where the hell is my son?” 

“Hosea, please...” 

“He’s fine! Hosea, he’s alive... it’s... he... “

His eyes widened at the way Dutch’s voice wavered; just as it had when Annabelle died. Heavy. Unsure. Wrong. Dutch swallowed thick, casting a quick, sidelong glance to the door to the bedroom. Hosea followed his gaze, jaw set and painfully tight. 

Hosea studied Dutch’s face for a second and his stomach dropped; too soft, too sad, too— 

Dutch’s hand shot out and gripped Hosea’s arm tight, desperate to keep him from kicking down yet another door. 

Hosea’s voice was cold and venomous, “Let me go.”

“Hosea—Listen to me, he’s—“

_ “Let me go,” _ the threat, unspoken, was clear in Hosea’s tone. Dutch cast another of those cloyingly worried glances at the lone door. Though, reluctantly, he submitted, releasing his hold on Hosea, hands raised in surrender, his eyes never left that door. 

With no small amount of furor, Hosea threw open the bedroom door, finding Arthur on the other side, sitting with his legs over the edge of the bed. Arthur’s face was cradled in his hand, but when Hosea entered, he shot up, features plastered with guilt and fear, like a child caught with the remains of a newly-broken vase. 

A moment stretched between them. Long. Arduous. 

“Hosea—“ Arthur whispered.

If he said anything more, Hosea didn’t hear it. He was far too preoccupied with gathering Arthur up in his arms, squeezing the man as tight as his weary bones could manage, as though that might somehow erase the hurt and loneliness of the past months. 

He hadn’t seen Arthur since well before the boy left. Hosea had gone on a job, returning days later to a fractured camp and an empty tent, met by a horde of concerned folk who eagerly explained the horrifying events of the past few days to him. He left Arthur, alone, unprotected, with a volatile Van der Linde who never could control his own temper.

He’d been an absolute fool. 

Never before had he so badly wanted to tear Dutch limb from limb than he did in that moment. But now? Seeing his boy so heavy and distraught? So beaten down and crushed, emaciated and pale, bruised, burned, and unkempt? That rage was dwarfed by sheer, unrelenting love. 

“My boy, my dear, sweet, stupid boy, I was so worried, I—“

Arthur stilled under his grasp; 

Hosea pulled back when he felt a tremor run through Arthur’s bony frame; how his breath had stuttered. He studied the man up and down, and his eyes met Arthur’s empty shoulder. Dread boiled in his stomach. He took a half step back. 

“‘M sorry...” Arthur croaked, unable to look Hosea in the eye, “I-I had to—“

Hosea hadn’t forgotten how horrifying Arthur’s injuries had been; how permanent. The image of his arm, riddled with sepsis and infection, still sat just under the surface of his thoughts.

Amputation wasn’t an impossible outcome. He had just expected to be there for it. 

“You worked so hard,” Arthur admitted after a second, somehow impossibly quieter, “A-and I couldn’t—”

Hosea took Arthur’s face in his hands, “Don’t be stupid, Arthur, I could give a shit about your arm. You’re okay— You’re alive, and that’s all that matters.”

“‘M sorry,” Arthur repeated, trying to bite back the tears in his eyes. He balled his fist into Hosea’s shirt, pulling the man close. Arthur’s face buried in Hosea’s chest, “‘m sorry, Hosea, I—“

  
  


Dutch gently closed the door, allowing the men their privacy; his own eyes burned with tears at the reunion, but he quickly swiped them away.. 

“S’at Micah’s horse?” John yelped, stepping through the wide-open front door, exhausted and dusty, “What the hell have you fools been up to?”

Dutch stared at John for a moment before wrapping him in a tight embrace, not minding one bit the puffs of dirt that billowed off his clothes. 

“Good to see you, son.”

“Dutch— hey, what the hell?” John pushed away, “What’s going on? Is Arthur all right?”

“He’s— He’ll be fine. You boys sure took your time getting here.”

“Damn Del Lobos,” John spat, “Held us up in the desert, had to deal with them. Hosea’s—“

“He’s with Arthur. I think we ought to give them a minute.”

The pair shared a breath, the gap between them far from closed, John’s threat still looming over them both. Dutch helped the boy settle in; helped him to brush down Silver Dollar and Old Boy, and to move their few things inside. The silence in the air was an inescapable weight that neither was willing to address. John’s eyes flickered warily to the grave out front each time he passed, still barren and easily distinguishable from the rest of the earth around the lake. 

“Thought it might’ve been him,” he admitted after a minute, “Really scared the hell out of us… then we saw Baylock and—“

Dutch’s heart stuttered at John’s words, an unmeasurable sorrow coursing through him, but he couldn’t find anything to say to excuse what must’ve been blind dread besides: “It’s Odessa.”

“Shit,” John stared at the fresh dirt, “What the hell happened?”

“Too much,” Dutch muttered.

“Heard you killed Micah, why’s the bastard’s horse still here?”

“Oh believe me, I intend to sell this monstrosity the second the opportunity presents itself. Figured ’til then, it helps having a spare horse around.”

“What’d you do with…?”

“Dragged him out to the desert,” Dutch said with an almost alarming level of calm, “Let the goddamned coyotes take care of him.”

At that moment, Hosea emerged from the small cabin, eyes red and sticky with tears; he looked a complete mess, worse perhaps than he had upon his arrival. Hosea shared a poignant look with John, but for the life of him Dutch couldn’t decipher the meaning behind their heavy stares. 

“John,” Hosea’s voice was too steady, too calm. It caught John’s attention immediately, “Why don’t you go see Arthur?”

John looked between his father figures, trying and failing to decode whatever atmosphere had settled between them. Wordlessly, he relented. 

The second the door closed behind John, as well as it could hanging half off of its hinges, Hosea’s fists were knotted into Dutch’s collar. 

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Do— what? Nothing, Hosea! What the hell are you—“

A firm shake; were Hosea any younger he might’ve saw fit to lift Dutch clean off the ground. 

“Dutch van der Linde, if you laid one single  _ finger _ on that boy—“

“Christ, Hosea! I didn’t  _ do _ anything!”

Though he kept his voice a low hiss, anger rolled off of him, burrowing into Dutch with rage unmatched, “He’s a goddamned wreck! I ain’t never seen that man so upset in his life!”

“I swear, I didn’t— we talked, that’s all!”

“What happened?” Hosea asked, cold and withdrawn, still staring Dutch down as though he were absolutely revolting, “You tell me every goddamn thing or I swear to God-”

And Dutch felt fit to vomit. He knocked Hosea’s hands away, gently, and ran his own through his sweat-matted hair. 

“Micah happened. This… Everything…” Dutch swallowed thickly, words coming in staccato bursts, “Micah found him first. He— I think this was his idea all along. He recognized that photographer friend of Arthur’s, he must’ve followed him and— Micah shot Arthur… This whole thing… He hunted him down like a dog, Hosea. A-and I got there in time, he had his gun in—in… He was about to kill him. The things he said— I almost didn’t—“, he sighed, pushing back the welling tears, “I dealt with it.”

He had dealt with it. In fact, he’d done nothing  _ but  _ deal with it in these past weeks. He’d done nothing but sit at Arthur’s bedside wondering which breath might be his last. 

Nothing but calm the man when panicked nightmares consumed him. 

Nothing but pray at his side to a god he barely believed in, offering anything, everything, if only Arthur would make it. “I thought he was dead,” Dutch added in a whisper, “I thought he was… I thought our boy was going to die in my arms. I managed to patch him up as best I could, but it got… fuck, it got close, Hosea. He was terrified of me, you… If you had seen the look on his face—”

Hosea had softened immensely, all of the anger draining from his muscles when he’d discerned that Dutch really hadn’t posed a threat to their boy. 

“He alright?”

“Not… not alright, but he’s… he’s better. We talked and— I’m still trying… He doesn’t think he can come back, Hosea.”

And once again, Hosea’s face was overcome with that indecipherable look that Dutch was quickly growing to hate. 

  
  


John stood by that bedroom door, willing himself to knock; working up the nerve to interrupt the quiet sniffles he heard from the other side. 

He took a deep breath, then another.John over-exaggerated his footsteps, stomping as loud as he could manage across the wooden floors. 

“Arthur!” he called out, moments before throwing the door open, “You still alive, brother?”

Arthur’s face was obscured by his hand, but the very edges of his shaky smile were still visible.

“Oh, just about,” he groaned, “Surprised you made it this far, Marston. You know there’s wolves down this way?”

“Damn they really butchered you… Guess you’re just about as ugly as me now, huh?” John let out a low whistle, jabbing a finger into Arthur’s stump.

Arthur hissed and kicked him hard in the shin, “Quit pokin at me!”

“Surprised you got any friends with that damn attitude… “ John grumbled and rubbed at his leg, stumbling back a few steps, “Don’t know why that feller was so upset, you seem fine to me!” 

“Which feller?”

“The scrawny one— Albert something. The one Dutch had point us this way.”

Arthur’s heart sank, heavy and full. He steeped in those words— in that name— for a moment, but could only muster two words.

“He’s… alive?’

“Was last I saw. Why, you kick him too?”

“He’s alive,” Arthur breathed, a boundless grin sinking into his features.

“Yeah… You feelin alright?”

“‘M fine,” Arthur replied too quickly, wiping the emotion from his face, though his chest still burned, “‘M fine, fuck off.”

If nothing else, he hadn’t gotten Albert killed. 

“But things… they’re okay? Between you ’n Dutch? He ain’t… done nothin’ strange?”

“We talked things out. I think all this was… Hell, even I don’t know.”

John drew in a deep, steadying breath. He squeezed his hands together tight.

“You… you coming back?”

“I don’t…” Arthur signed, unable to look his brother in the eye, “I don’t know.”

John swallowed thickly; audibly.

“Shit went off the rails once you left, in a really bad way. And I don’t— This whole thing got me thinking… Arthur you— you can’t keep doin this, got me?”

“What’re you on about?”

“Just… think it through, okay?”

Arthur sighed, pulling the younger man into a fond headlock. 

“Look at you, actin’ all grown.”

John pulled out of his grasp, shoving Arthur away as though he hadn’t terribly missed the grouch over these past weeks. Though they traded insults as Arthur explained, in as few words as possible, everything he had suffered since leaving, there was no trace of animosity between them. No tension. 

“So uh…” John sat on the edge of the bed, just within arm’s reach, the mattress bowing under his weight, “You and Dutch kissed and made up yet?”

Arthur sputtered, choking on his own breath. “Marston!” he yelped, eyes wide, “ _ The hell is wrong with you? _ ”

“Take that as a no,” John huffed, “Damn it… there’s five bucks gone. Y’all couldn’t’a just, I dunno, gotten drunk and—”

Arthur cuffed him hard upside the head, “Fuck is you on about?”

“Hosea and I had a bet,” John shrugged. 

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose hard, fighting back what was sure to blossom into a migraine. If the gesture perhaps also served to hide the burning blush in his cheeks, who would know?

Hosea and John stayed a few days, unwilling to leave Arthur’s side for as long as they could manage, but their presence only served to unnerve Arthur further. Hosea watched his every movement with great interest, only ever breaking his vigil over Arthur to monitor Dutch with the same intensity. 

Neither could decode the expression Hosea wore, nor guess at the man’s thoughts when, inevitably, his features would melt into something almost fond before hardening again. 

Within a week, though, Arthur grew antsy and irritable, feeling far too caged in by the extra attention. Feeling frustration roll off of him, and unwilling to leave the gang on its own for any longer, Hosea and John thought it best to set off back to Lemoyne.

Hosea clutched Arthur tight in a lingering hug.

“You be safe, got it?” he whispered, “Arthur, I love you so, so very much. You write, okay?” 

“Okay,” he mumbled, burying his face into the crook of Hosea’s neck, “… Love you, too.”

Hosea pulled back, holding Arthur’s face in his hands for a moment, eyes brimming with tears. He studied Arthur’s face, and patted him on the shoulder.

Hosea pulled Dutch into a similarly lengthy embrace.

“We’ll be along” Dutch offered, voice slight, “Soon as Arthur can get on a horse.”

John stood a ways back. He locked eyes with Arthur, “You uh… remember what we talked about.”

A knot formed in Arthur’s throat. 

“Right.”

With that, John and Hosea left once again.

Arthur and Dutch stood in silence, watching their backs disappear into the vast desert. 

They spent the evening drinking.

  
  


“We ever gonna see him again?” John asked as he and Hosea plodded through Hennigan’s Stead.

Hosea melted into a soft smile.

“Oh, I’m sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooooo my darling little ghouls! 
> 
> A late post again! But it's okay! Hosea and John finally caught up! A heart-warming reunion! Albert's alive! And the second-to-last chapter! 
> 
> That's right, we've finally reached the end. Sunday is the last chapter. There is an epilogue though! So you aren't quite rid of me yet! ♡♡♡♡
> 
> Love you all so, so much! I hope you have a good day today, whenever you happen to read this! ♡♡♡♡ See you Sunday!


	43. IV. VIII

_“Bullshit,”_ Dutch’s raucous chortle filled the early morning air, “You did _not.”_

“I did!” Arthur beamed, “Swear on my life!”

Dutch dissolved into laughter, “Ain’t Hosea and I ever taught you not to drink things you find lying around?”

“Ain’t even taste that bad, and I seem fine for it! Couldn’t see right for a day though.”

The sun yet to rise; Arthur and Dutch sat at the small table in the kitchen, cheeks red with joy and cups brimming with fresh coffee. They shared between them a can of strawberries, as Arthur entertained Dutch with riveting tales of his journeys. He suspected Dutch might already know well enough, given how thoroughly he’d studied Arthur’s journal, but it was nice to say aloud regardless.

Despite the warmth that bloomed in Arthur's chest and the lightness in his tone, an undercurrent of unease threaded between them. 

They were leaving today. Hamish’s cabin had been cleaned and organized, completely unrecognizable from the ruined shack it had once been. The town was sad to see them go; Arthur had become a fixture of the community, irreplaceable, and Dutch? Well, they tolerated Dutch, but he spent money in all the right places. Neither man was certain he’d be able to ever really rid himself of the choking dust that coated the desert. Arthur would miss the small homestead though; it truly had become _his_ in these past week and had been an irreplaceable comfort, but some things are better left behind. 

For now, they sat and ate breakfast as though nothing was wrong.

“Killed a lion,” Arthur admitted with a proud grin, taking a swig of his coffee as Dutch processed his words, “Up at Emerald. I didn’t want to. Weren’t even supposed to. This— this woman beast wrangler— his name was Margaret— asked me to get him back. I ain’t wanna kill it though, it was... I mean, think of the biggest dog you ever seen, and triple it. That’s how big this lion was. So angry, kind of reminded me of Hosea, in a way. It was him or me though, seeing as he’d just tore through most of Emerald as though it weren’t more than wet paper. Killed a man and some animals, so I had to.”

Dutch stared at him, eyebrows raised, “You... killed a lion.”

“Got the paw—“ Arthur groaned, trying to rise, but was pushed back down by Dutch’s steady hand. His wound had healed, more or less, but still left him sore if he moved too quickly, “—in my satchel. Take a gander, if you don't believe me..”

“Did you tell _Hamish_ about this?”

Were he paying attention, Arthur might have recognized the twinge of jealousy in Dutch's tone, and might have mocked him relentlessly. Instead, he was trying desperately not to suffocate under the weight of guilt. Arthur’s stomach twisted and bit, his lungs again full of lead at the mere utterance of the name. His blood ran cold in his veins. _Hamish._ Visions of the man dismembered and strewn about O’Creagh’s Run haunted him. He tried, and failed, to shake away those gruesome images. His breath hitched. 

“You... met Hamish?”

“Oh I met him all right. He beat the hell out of me, and that horse of his damn near killed Hosea.”

The bruises Hamish has left on Dutch’s face had long since faded; not that either man could tell, as his cheeks had grown in scruffy and unkempt. 

“Aw,” Arthur said with the slightest fond smile, something just barely bright enough to punch through the overwhelming grief, “Buell’s a sweetheart. Hamish maybe less so, but he… he ain’t too bad.”

“You sure do have a habit of charming mean, bastard father figures.”

“Guess so,” Arthur’s voice wavered, though he tried to clear it away, “He ain’t so much a father as a hunting buddy. We use to go out every once in a while, chasing after some beast or another. He- uh… He’s good people. Lemme tell you, that man was impressed for all of twenty seconds when I told him ‘bout the lion, then he started barkin’ ‘bout how I shoulda brought him along, how he’d’ve killed it with one shot, and I don’t doubt that he could… He saved me, y’know. Tried, at least. Threw hisself in front of a wolf to try and keep it off’a me. I ain’t… I ain’t ever gonna be able to thank him for… for everything he’s done for me.”

The brief reminiscence left his chest aching fiercely. 

“He’s a good man”, Dutch nodded, sipping his coffee, “I’d like to meet him under happier circumstances next time.”

“Micah killed him,” the words fell out, a harsh croak before Arthur could stop them.

Dutch choked on his mouthful of coffee, staring wide eyed at Arthur, processing his pained admission, “ _What?_ When the hell did he do that?”

“Dunno, he uh…” Arthur bit back a cough, “...told me he went back and…”

 _“Back?”_ Dutch asked, brows furrowed. Rage flashed over his face, laced with potent confusion.

“He… while I was staying with Hamish he showed up. Said you wanted to… that you were looking to kill me.”

“Did he?” Dutch’s voice dropped cold; unamused. He was suddenly overwhelmed to find the man’s corpse, no doubt strewn about the desert by now, and fill it full of lead once more. Yet strangely, something about Arthur’s retelling seemed out of place, “He would’ve had to be right behind us; Hosea and I left Hamish right before setting out west… but Micah was at camp when we returned.”

At this, Arthur’s eyes widened. His heart thundered, but his thoughts were eerily still. 

“Arthur I’m… I’m sorry I ever allowed that monster to— to get in my ear. I should’ve… He just—“

“He said all the right things, Dutch,” Arthur grumbled, heart still aflutter, thoughts still racing and wracked with conflict, “Can’t blame you for liking him. And I’d say you more than made up for it.”

“I can send someone to check up on him,” Dutch offered quietly, “When we get back to camp.”

The morose atmosphere that had settled between them only thickened. A heavy, lonesome silence flooded the small cabin and left the both of them to drown. 

By the time the sun edged over the horizon, Dutch was perched upon The Count, face held like stone. Arthur, too, was mounted, sat atop Baylock’s back, decidedly uncomfortable. It was not his first time back on a horse, but for whatever reason his muscles screamed at him today. He dug his fingers into his stump, now smooth, pink scar tissue. 

“Arthur I…” Dutch swallowed back against the sick feeling in his gut. His dark eyes met Arthur’s, and for a moment the world around them seemed to fall away. His voice was slight and distinctly pained, but whatever thoughts ran through his head, he didn’t allow them to show on his face, “I thought perhaps you ought to know that I… I am….”

Arthur frowned slightly but couldn’t bring himself to look Dutch in the eye. He dipped his hat low against the sun.

“I know, Dutch.”

Dutch searched his face, hoping, wishing for some break in Arthur’s resolve, some small amount of doubt, but none remained. Another silence stretched endlessly between them, but this one was warmer than the last. Dutch, for a moment, looked as though he were about to say something, perhaps a final plea for Arthur’s companionship, one final attempt to again ensnare the man who had been so helplessly consumed for the past years. 

Instead, he settled on: “Be well, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s hand gripped the reins tight. 

“You too.”

Arthur didn’t watch him go— or couldn't, perhaps.

Beneath him, Baylock shifted uneasily. The sky above began to burn with brilliant hues of pink and blue, brimming with possibility. The sun rose at his back with an undeserved gentleness, a soft touch accompanied by the most delicate, sweet breeze Arthur had known. Arthur wallowed in the familiar loneliness, and found he didn't mind it one single bit. He drank in the pleasant silence of the lake, and for a moment that’s all there was. No plans, no goals, no destinations. Nothing to do. No lives on the line. Just him, feeling lighter than he had been in a long, long while. He drew a long, deep lungful of the dry New Austin air. 

And Arthur left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello! Fancy seeing you here, you beautiful, festive gourds!♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> And so we've reached our humble conclusion. That's right. We've made it to the end. All that remains is the epilogue. I'll post that this Thursday, so keep your eyes peeled for it! For now, let's just sit and steep in this ending.
> 
> Ah endings are always bittersweet, yknow?
> 
> But Arthur made it. I told y'all he would. He made it! Down an arm, down a horse, on his own, but he's okay.
> 
> Thank you all, really, truly, for making it this far with me!! I couldn't have done this without each and every single one of you. 
> 
> So, for the last time until I post my next longfic, I'll see you all on Thursday ♡


	44. Epilogue I: West

**1911**

The sun had dipped low, nestled into the mountains comfortably, it takes with it the last bite of daylight. His breath puffs out in clouds as he putters around, absently fixing himself a cup of coffee, despite the waning day. Arthur sips from his mug and settles in by the fire. 

“Been a while since we’ve been out this way...” he mutters, to fill the silence. 

“Sure has.”

Dutch takes a drag from his cigar, letting his exhale curl and fold into the steady plumes of smoke that rose from their fire. Arthur presses up against his side.

Big Valley was barely recognizable. The blanketing lupine was gone, torn away and replaced with ranches and homesteads. The trees had been cleared, too, leaving the area bare and sickly. Arthur hated it. 

A lot can change in twelve years. He knew that. Last time he’d been here, he still had an arm, and Dutch still had a gang. 

He hadn’t thought of those days in a long while. 

Not since Micah, who had largely been forgotten, was dragged out to the desert to rot. Slowly as time pulled away at his misdeeds, his treachery became clear; he’d turned the law on them, probably before Blackwater. In pursuit of some twisted goal, one that they might never truly understand, he had collaborated with enemies at every turn— O’Driscolls, Pinkertons, bounty hunters, lawmen— to see to it that Arthur was thoroughly removed from the picture... His animosity towards the man had led him to orchestrate Arthur's torture all those years ago: had seen to it that the man was run off, injured dying and would never return. He’d gone so far as to place a bounty of his own on Arthur’s head— a thousand dollars, plus Arthur’s actual bounty, for whichever O’Driscoll could find the man and shoot him dead. He had almost succeeded, but in the end his own recklessness led to his swift and merciless downfall. But Arthur had still paid a price, and even now those scars still showed, faint but easy to see if one knew where to look. 

He’d snaked his way into Dutch’s good graces. He worked from the inside to keep them from finding Arthur. His plan failed, each of his plans failed, but the idea that he had so blatantly been able to manipulate Dutch and drive apart the gang with such ease still unnerved the pair of them to no end. 

Not since Dutch, after three years apart, showed up at Arthur’s doorstep, grayed and weary and old, carting along with him a gaggle of ex-outlaws held together by memory alone. No longer a gang, no longer trapped under the thumb of the law. 

He came with money— lots of it— and the answer to a question Arthur had asked before they parted ways those years before. He’d never thought he’d return to the man’s side, much less to this part of West Elizabeth.

But a lot can change in twelve years. 

Arthur tugged his jacket tighter around his frame; Dutch shifts a little closer. Though it was mid-May once more, the frigid winds of the mountains still rolled through, icy and raw. 

“Maybe we should’ve gone with Hosea,” Arthur chuckles, “… Bet Abigail’s got a whole bed made up for him. Pro’ly a feast, knowing her.”

“Aw, you getting old on me, cowboy? Can’t handle a rough night?” Dutch elbows his ribs playfully.

Arthur runs a hand along his chin; the coarse silver hairs that had sprouted there stood out from his usual honey-blond. He frowns, steadily. 

“You looked in a mirror lately, Dutch? Ain’t no spring chicken yourself.”

Dutch hums, and Arthur can feel it vibrate through his own chest, “Excuse you, _I_ am timeless.”

“You’re grayer than I am.”

“We could _all_ be sleeping in a bed if someone wasn’t so damn restless.”

He was referring, of course, to what was technically their ranch; a fairly large homestead they hadn’t seen in months, and even then had only stopped by to visit. With their share of the Blackwater money, Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur had purchased a homestead in California. They sorely missed John, who instead took his family and headed off on his own, but were well distracted by the others who had come to join them. 

Dutch would bemoan, on occasion, the money they spent for a home they didn’t use, but his concerns were easily brushed off. Folks filtered through there regularly, staying anywhere between a night and a year at the ranch whenever they found themselves nearby. California was well out of the way for most of them these days, and as years went by the visits dwindled. They didn’t mind much, though, as Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea were away more often than not themselves. There were some permanent residents, like Lenny and Miss Grimshaw, who were happy to take care of the homestead while the three of them were out traveling. Grimshaw, ever dutiful, saw to it that the ranch remained running and efficient in their absence, forgiven entirely for her defiance all those years ago. 

Forgiven for dissolving the gang before Dutch had returned from New Austin, sending folks far from the watchful eyes of the law without a single word. Dutch had returned to an empty camp; only Hosea remained, waiting. 

Besides that, the take Dutch had retrieved from Blackwater all those years ago was more than enough to set each of them comfortably; enough to slip the surly bonds of the east. He’d seen to it that, wherever they were hiding, folk got their share. Some followed after him, others remained content in the lives they’d crafted. Arthur had been the hardest to find, having spent three years gallivanting across the west. 

But he managed. They managed. 

Arthur exhales sharply, “Like you weren’t just as willing to leave as I was. Way I see it, let them young’un’s do the hard work. I’m retired, I worked damn hard enough.”

Dutch bubbled with laughter, a warm and welcoming sound, “That you have.”

“Way I figure…” Arthur said, “We should be in and out of Hamish’s in a week, week ’n a half tops—“

Dutch groaned, “Do we have to? That man very clearly has it out for me.”

“He likes you fine, Dutch.”

“Last we were there, he had a shotgun in his hands the whole time.”

Arthur chuckled; he wasn’t wrong. Though slower in his old age, Hamish was as ornery as ever. Arthur hadn’t seen the man since he was last down this way, a few years back, but they shared letters on occasion. He’d invited Hamish to the ranch in California; unsurprisingly, Hamish declined. 

“Well, he ain’t shot you yet! ‘Least we ain’t gotta check in on Mrs. Balfour this time. She’s in Chicago til spring. Once we’re done with Hamish, I figure we make it down to Beecher’s and into a bed before next month… though with Marston in charge, honestly, I’d be surprised if that wreck was still standing.”

“Goddamned better be,” Dutch bit, “Spent too damn long piecing it together. If that fool let it burn down—“

“If I remember correctly, you and Hosea sat on your asses in the shade while the rest of us sweat enough to fill the Dakota.”

“ _Supervising,_ Arthur. Someone had to make sure you boys didn’t screw anything up.”

Arthur huffed, but something ached deep in his chest. It had been nearly four years since the last time he’d seen the Martsons. He left them with Charles and Sadie, but surely those two had long since moved on. He hoped they were okay.

But he chose not to think of it, lest his thoughts spiral out of control. 

He fell into a short series of sharp coughs; Dutch all but forced one of Hosea’s herbal remedies into his stomach as he rubbed small circles into Arthur’s back.

“M’ fine,” he promised, offering a shaky, breathless smile, “’S the cold air, that’s all.”

“That cough gets any worse I swear to god I will hogtie you and drag you to a doctor,” Dutch warned, only half joking. 

But Arthur’s throat hurt a little too much to come up with a retort.

As silence fell between them, Dutch carefully set about picking out the stars overhead. He gave each a name and a shape, with Arthur listening attentively. 

Dutch’s voice died off, slowly, as Arthur took over, happy to point out the constellations he felt Dutch had glossed over.

As Arthur took to telling a long-winded, mostly improvised tale about some cluster of stars he’d picked out, Dutch couldn’t keep the laughter at bay. While Dutch kept his eyes firmly on the sky above, humoring Arthur and his attempts at astronomy, Arthur was focused, entirely, wholly, and completely, on the other man’s face. He watched the way it twisted so matter-of-factly with happiness, the way the moonlight rested on his skin, the way his eyes shone more than those stars ever could. Arthur’s heart stuttered in his chest, burning hot. 

Dutch raised an eyebrow, a joyful grin smeared across his face, “What?” 

“Nothin’,” Arthur mumbles, looking away sheepishly.

“You moron,” Dutch laughed, fondness oozing out of his tone. 

In that second, that moment, everything washed away. The aches and pains of thirty-two years had gone, replaced by the overwhelming warmth between them. 

When morning broke, Dutch broke with it, roused from a stupidly deep sleep by the first fingers of daylight jabbing themselves into his eye sockets. 

His discontent was quieted by Arthur’s warm breath on his chest. The man was tucked up against Dutch’s side, arm slung across the older man’s stomach and head resting on his chest. The newly born sunlight washed away the years of stress and pain, leaving Arthur looking all too familiar in a way that made Dutch’s heart ache.

They’d reach Beecher’s Hope by mid June, having been persuaded by Hamish to stay just a bit longer than intended. 

When they’d arrive, it would be to an empty ranch, devoid entirely of life. Hosea and Uncle would sit on the porch, faces grim and pale, their pallor only worsening as Dutch and Arthur approached. 

The words spilled out of Hosea’s mouth, angry, fuming, and frightened, quicker than Dutch and Arthur could understand them. But Hosea didn’t have to repeat himself. They knew. 

And suddenly, it was as though everything they worked for all those years ago had come undone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s that? A second, smaller bittersweet ending hidden under the first? That’s right! I just can’t help myself. 
> 
> It’s been a real trip, y’all. I can’t believe we’ve made it this far! Thank you so, so much for everything. All the love, and support, and kindness, I just can’t thank you all enough. I’ve gotten so much more out of this than I ever thought possible, and I hope I’ve at least entertained you guys ♡♡♡
> 
> My loves, my dearests, my darlings! You haven’t seen the last of me quite yet! I’ve got oneshots, and sequels, and prequels galore, coming up quick! (Speaking of, if you’ve got any requests, I’d love to hear ‘em!)
> 
> That’s all, folks!
> 
> …. For now ♡

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Overdone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292759) by [Darling_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack)




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